


burn up in your atmosphere

by justaboat



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaboat/pseuds/justaboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au: harry moves to brighton. he meets louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn up in your atmosphere

**Author's Note:**

> title from john mayer's in your atmosphere.

“ _Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured._ ”

\- Mark Twain

 

It’s half past six in the morning when he decides to check his voicemail. He’s too hungover and cold to try and fall back asleep as he shifts, seeing someone on the left side of the bed. Louis, if his still somewhat fuzzy memories of last night can help him, his name is Louis. So trying not to wake him Harry carefully pushes himself out of bed, taking a sweater off his floor before padding into the kitchen. His flat is fucking freezing, the heating still not working as he turns on the light, picking up the kettle from the counter. There’s still some water still left in it as he turns on a burner, feeling the warmth beginning to radiate from it immediately, holding his hands up toward it in an attempt to heat up his achingly cold fingers.

“ _You have two new voicemail messages. To hear these messages, press one._ ” The prompt instructs as the pad of his thumb hesitates for just a moment before pressing it.

“ _First message left Thursday, September fifth at two eleven pm._ ”

Harry braces himself, leaning his forehead against the wood of the cupboard and biting down on his lower lip because he already knows who the message is from before it even begins.

“ _Hi, darling. I’ve been calling you all week but I think I’ve missed you, I imagine you’re busy —_ ” a lump grows in his throat immediately when he hears her voice. Unassuming and familiar. 

“ _I just wanted to see if you’re eating enough. Because you never eat enough, you know? Gemma used to say that you’re almost as small as she is. Which isn’t true, honey, not at all but you do need to eat. And it’s getting cold out, so wear a sweater, will you? I hope you packed enough. There’s - there’s some in your room still, you know. I shouldn’t have gone in there but I wanted to see if you had everything you needed,_ ” her voice is starting to break and Harry has to close his eyes to focus on her voice, try and not think about how he’s the reason that she’s trying to hold herself together. 

“ _I’ll call back again, another time, when you’re less busy. I love you, Harry._ ”

There’s a moment between messages where he considers hanging up before the automated voice begins again, “ _second message left September seventh at five sixteen pm._ ”

“ _Hi, baby. It’s me again. I wanted to call and tell you that I bought some more decorations today, those fall one’s you like so much. I even got some pumpkins, they were on sale which never happens so early in the season, so I put about five in my cart. You and Gemma used to carve them, remember? After you’d make us go on those long walks with you through the neighbourhood, making a point of stepping on the leaves that would make the most noise along the way._ ” She leaves out the bit where Gemma would try and shove him onto the road as much as possible, causing him to nearly trip and crack open his head at one point. 

“ _I hope it’s beautiful where you are, Harry. Autumn was always your favourite, you used to tell me._ ” 

There’s a pause and Harry finds himself holding his breath as he waits for her to finish. In the background there’s a bit of shuffling and he wonders where his mother was when she had called him. If it was at the kitchen table or outside in those terribly uncomfortable chairs she insists on keeping in her garden, with a book in her lap and fiddling with her knitted bookmark while she talked into the phone.

“ _Maybe you — maybe you just need your space. Sometimes you’d get like that, you know? And I don’t know if this is one of those times but, I miss you, my baby boy. Call me when you can. I love you._ ”

He stares at his phone for a moment, the stove taking a while to heat up as he looks at the list of most recent calls. _Mum_ , _Gemma_ , and _Liam_ are all there, none of which he’s called back.

Above him there’s a post it note on the cupboard reading _Winston and Son’s Repairs_ with a number written across it, someone Niall had recommended to him to come and fix the heating. And Harry will call them, he will. But for now he puts on extra layers and hunches over his stove and tells himself he will call them tomorrow just, not today. 

Beside the bright yellow post it note is a grocery list he’d thrown together last night before going out, the most necessary items he’d gone over a few times in pen along with the noticeably large _BUY FUCKING TOILET PAPER_ on the bottom of the page.

\- _milk (2%)_  
\- _eggs_  
\- _bread (whole wheats on sale)_  
\- _tea_  
\- _beer (necessity)_  
\- _dish soap (the cucumber smelling kind)_  
\- _toilet bowl cleaner_  
\- _chicken_  
\- _alfredo sauce (????)_  
\- _shaving cream_

The kettle goes off a few moments later as Harry turns off the burner, pausing to check and see if he’s woken Louis, glancing toward the doorway of his bedroom. When there’s no movement he pours the water, letting it steep for a few minutes as he goes over his to-do list for today. Grocery shop, for one. Laundry for another. Also pay his rent for the month and pick up his paycheck from work. However instead of standing in his kitchen and thinking about all the things he has to do today he puts a piece of toast in his toaster, letting it sit as he sips his tea, slowly. The warmth from his cup is welcomed between his hands, still slightly shivering as he hears movement from somewhere behind him.

He turns to find a slightly disheveled, now dressed Louis trying to put on a sock and not topple over at the same time. When he sees Harry he pauses, briefly, putting down his half socked foot, almost awkwardly.

“Right. Morning,” he greets, now putting on his sock properly.

“D’you — um, do you want breakfast? Tea?” Harry offers, feeling like a stranger in his own kitchen.

Louis looks toward the kettle, nodding. “If love some tea,” he says.

There’s one last clean mug in the cupboard as he gets his tea ready, moving around Harry’s kitchen like he’s some sort of expert. When it’s ready he tosses the tea bag into the garbage, humming as he takes a sip. 

“Should get your heating looked at,” Louis comments, “it’s fucking freezing in here.”

Harry motions toward the post-it note on his cupboard. “Gonna make the call today,” he says, mostly to convince himself at this point.

“Thanks for the tea,” Louis says finally, straightening out his jacket as he gives Harry a small, polite wave. “I’ll return this, promise.”

Harry’s not sure he believes him, watching the smaller boy walk toward his front door. “Wait —” 

Louis stops turning the door handle, as he gives him a confused sort of look over his shoulder. “I swear I’ll bring the mug back. No need to fret curly,” he reassures.

“No it’s just,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck and starting to feel slightly warm, probably from embarrassment at the look Louis is giving him. “Um, have a good day?”

Harry doesn’t know the protocol for this. Does he walk him out the door? Down the hallway? Or does he stay standing in his kitchen with his now nearly cold tea and watch him go? Maybe there isn’t a protocol. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

Surprisingly Louis smiles, just a little, the corners of his lips turned up just slightly. 

“You too. I’ll see you around,” he says, giving one last wave before closing the door behind himself. 

Harry groans, rubbing his face with his hands as he doesn’t even bother taking his toast when it pops from the toaster a few moments later. Instead he makes his way back into his bedroom, resisting the urge to fall back into bed in hopes of sleeping a couple of extra hours as he changes into a pair of jeans, keeping on his sweater. 

For the better part of the morning he spends doing a few dishes, putting them away and unpacking a few boxes. They’re mostly books and other random items of clothing he couldn’t fit anywhere else that join with the rest of the pile on the floor. 

A little past eight he leaves his flat, closing and locking the door behind himself and taking his obscenely large laundry bag with him. There’s a laundromat about a block over, open twenty-four hours apparently as he finds an empty washer. He used to know how to sort his clothes but the knowledge has long been forgotten as he puts it all into the washer as best he can, adding in a bit of detergent and closing the top, setting it on the usual cycle. There’s no one else there as he leaves, deciding that a coffee and something to eat is probably a better idea than sitting and watching his laundry cause chances are he’d fall asleep. 

He’s been living here a little over a month, yet he hardly knows the place. Mostly he keeps to himself, going to his flat after work and not doing much else besides sleeping and watching Say Yes to the Dress marathons on tv. 

He takes a step into a small coffee shop just down the street, remembering the only other time he’d been to Brighton before moving here was when his grandmother had passed away when he was six. He doesn’t remember much, mostly sitting in the backseat with Gemma, only stopping once to get gas along the way. From the front seat he remembers his mother crying off and on, his father’s head holding her own across the middle console and rubbing the same circles into the back of her hand.

Harry was never sure why, but that image had always made him a little uncomfortable. Probably because his father wasn’t a man of much affection.

“Blueberry or lemon cranberry?”

He looks up, seeing a girl holding a pair of tongs as Harry blinks. “Blueberry’s fine,” he answers.

She gives him a look that’s a mixture of annoyed and concerned, taking the pastry and putting it into a paper bag for him. He pays the total, being instructed that his “latte will be down at the end,” as he waits at the end of the counter. The radio’s playing a song he doesn’t know, the girl making his drink moving about as he waits quietly.

“Caramel latte for Harry?” she calls out, sliding it down toward him.

He thanks her, picking up the cup before heading out the door. The scone is a little stale but he eats it anyway, too hungry to care as he walks along the street. Most of the shops are open by now, the streetlights off in the morning sunlight. 

The first one he steps into is an old clothing store as he sorts through some of the racks, pushing the hangers and remembering when him and Liam used to work in a clothing store. It was at the mall, one of those new and ‘chic’ shops. Needless to say it had ended horribly, both of them had gotten fired. Though they'd left with the ability to fold dress shirts rather well, if anything.

There’s a hardware store, grocery store and finally a bookshop near the end of the street Harry finds as he keeps walking along. He tosses his now empty cup and paper bag into the trash, stopping for a moment to look at the sign above the door, old and worn as he pauses for a moment. It somehow looks oddly familiar Harry thinks, opening the door as he takes a step inside. It’s warm, thank God, as he feels it immediately begin to spread throughout him.

At the front of the store is an older man writing in a large book as Harry glances along the shelves. It’s almost like he’s been here before, but he hasn’t a clue why that would be. He looks at the titles he doesn’t know and authors names he doesn’t recognize, most of them dusty and older, he notes. It smells like old books, reminding him of his dad’s office in their house. Though those were mostly his textbooks he’d kept from school, doing nothing but taking up space on his shelves. At least these are interesting.

There’s a staircase leading upstairs, long and curved as Harry takes a step, not hearing any complaints from the older man, gripping the metal railing as he does so. The second room is colder, with big metal shelves filled with mostly atlases and dictionaries.

Along the back wall there’s a collection of signs as he looks through them. Some of them are heavy, with obnoxious bright paint while others are small, hardly noticeable. Though when he reaches on in particular Harry pauses, recoiling his hand as soon as he reads it.

_Styles Travel Agencies._

He blinks, almost unsure if he’s even reading it properly. But that’s what it says. The words clear, no matter how faded they are. 

“Those aren’t for sale,” comes a voice as Harry turns, the older man now a way’s behind him.

“I was just — looking,” Harry explains quickly, voice rushed and heart pounding in his chest, like a child who’s just been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“Do you like that one?” he asks, taking a step toward Harry. “It was here right when I bought the building, so I put it up here with the rest of them.”

Harry swallows, trying to smile. “Did you know much about it? The travel agency?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

The man shrugs, taking his glasses off of his nose and putting them into the front pocket of his shirt. He opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, now beside Harry as he looks at the sign, studying it.

“It did well for a while. The man who owned it was in poor shape though,” he says finally, not looking at Harry as he speaks.

Harry nearly laughs, but stops himself. “That’s a shame,” he says instead.

“Heard he had a family,” the man recalls and Harry feels something tighten in his chest. “A bit of a tragedy, I think. Either way I’m sure it all worked out in the end.” He looks at Harry when he speaks now, waiting for him to say something.

“Of course. Worked out, all that,” Harry says, taking a step back toward the stairs. “Nice store you have,” he compliments.

The room is near silent, the two standing there and for a moment it’s like he feels so exposed, laid bare on the old wooden floors, a man he doesn’t know looking at him like he’s found out all of Harry’s secrets somehow, all the one’s he keeps hidden and buried, half of them he hardly remembers himself anymore. And he could say something, anything, to this stranger and they would take every word he said for what it was. No previous knowledge of his life, nothing else known to him except that Harry’s here, in a bookshop, in an overly large trench coat and trying to keep himself warm with his hands balled into fists, kept tucked into his pockets.

Apart from that he doesn’t know much else. He doesn’t even know Harry’s name. And yet Harry could tell him everything. Which is a thought that could be comforting, but it somehow terrifies him more than it does comfort. 

“It was nice meeting you,” the older man says after a moment.

Harry nods before heading back down the stairs and out the door. Cold air rushes over him and it still feels like he can hardly breathe, his chest beginning to heave as he leans against the brick wall for a moment. He looks back into the shop, wondering if he should try and commit it to memory. 

But his laundry is done and he can’t spend the rest of his day staring through a window, Harry thinks as he walks back toward the laundromat. There’s an older lady taking out her now dry clothes are he transfers his own into a dryer, pleased to see that none of the colours had bled into his other clothes, by some miracle. 

The morning is quiet, a few people scattered through the store when he takes a basket past the automatic doors. His list is still in his pocket, reading it over as he walks down the first aisle. Milk and eggs. He first needs milk and eggs.

Usually it was his mother that would do all the shopping, asking him to write down things he thought they needed throughout the week on her pad of paper on the fridge. But she’s not here and he’s left to wander until he finds the milk, the eggs not too long after it. It’s a smaller store than he’s used too, more so like a glorified convenience shop with all the shelves crammed into one space with seemingly no rhyme or reason to them.

Out of all the items the shaving cream was the most difficult to find, shoved between some baby food and cans of soup at the end of cereal aisle. A right mess, Harry thinks, putting it into his basket and re reading his list. He’s got everything, almost, save for the toilet paper which he finds two rows over.

On the way to a till he picks up a copy of the daily newspaper, The Brighton Beacon, tucking it under his arm as he approaches the young woman who begins scanning his items.

She smiles, big and wide before putting a few things into bags for him. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she finally asks.

 _Erin_ , her nametag reads. Followed by _And I’ll be happy to help you with your every need!_  
Harry almost snorts when he reads it.

“Um, no. No, not really,” Harry answers, paying the total as she reaches out, briefly grabbing his hand as he pauses.

“Well welcome to Brighton. I’m Erin,” she introduces, shaking his hand firmly.

Harry smiles, barely, as he takes his bags as she releases his hand for him to do so. “Have a good day,” he says before walking out the doors.

He probably should have introduced himself. Probably should have said more than no, no not really and made her feel like an idiot. He considers going back inside and telling her his name but stops, looking to see if she’s still staring at him from the front door. She’s not.

Once he’s got his groceries in his flat the next step is getting his laundry, which is dry by the time he gets there, shoving it into his laundry basket and making his way back to his flat. 

It’s a lot lonelier than he’d imagined, moving here. Somehow he’d gotten it in his head that if he packed up his things and moved to Brighton his whole life would change. He’d suddenly have more friends, have things to do and people to see but so far none of that’s happened. All he’s really done is worked and gone out and gotten drunk with some boy named Louis.

What a shining accomplishment, really.

However instead of feeling sorry for himself Harry opens one of those ‘easy to cook’ soup cans into a pan, stirring it as he turns on a burner for the stove. He looks up at the post it note, debating. He’s got at least twenty minutes until the soup’s warm enough to eat, anyway. And taking out his phone he dials the number, hearing it ring a few times until — 

“Winston and Son’s Repairs, Ben speaking, how may I help you?”

The voice takes him off-guard as Harry coughs, briefly, covering his mouth before finally responding. “Right, I’m — my name is Harry Styles and the heating in my flat isn't working?" 

“Where do you live?”

Harry pauses. He doesn’t, he can’t remember off the top of his head. “Just above the flower shop?” he says, wincing. 

“On the corner of Locke and Emerson?” Ben asks.

“Yeah, just above Jean’s Flowers,” Harry clarifies, “it’s not, like, urgent. But I want to get it fixed before winter comes.”

“I can stop by sometime tomorrow for a look over? Around three?”

He works until two so, that works out. “I’ll be there,” Harry says.

“Call me back if anything changes. See you tomorrow Mr. Styles,” Ben says before hanging up.

“Bye,” Harry replies, but Ben’s no longer on the line as he hangs up.

While waiting for his soup he takes the newspaper from the top of his laundry pile, thumbing through the pages as the ink stains the pads of his fingertips, just slightly. He doesn’t pay much attention to the words on the pages, skimming the headlines for nothing in particular until he reaches the last page. The one with the daily comic strips and daily crossword puzzle.

Harry hates crosswords, and yet he finds himself inexplicably drawn to them. Probably because they’re one of the few things he associates solely with his father.

“Harry,” he remembers his father telling him, laughably serious. “You always do your crossword in pencil, lest you make a mistake.”

There’s a pen to his left as he picks it up, reading over the clues and ignoring his father’s voice in the back of his head as he starts filling in the first few boxes. By the time his soup is ready he’s crossed out nearly most of the boxes, the rest of them filled with words that didn’t fit as he stares at it for a moment, wondering what his father would say if he were looking it over. If he’d comment on Harry’s lack of commitment to finish anything, or if instead he wouldn’t say anything at all.

He’s not sure which one he dislikes more.

But he leaves it on the kitchen counter, turning on the television and not really watching it as he eats on the couch. It’s uncomfortable, smelling like old beer and stale chips but it had been free when he’d picked it up from the side of the road regardless of the smell. 

Somewhere between an episode of Will and Grace and CSI Harry dozes off, empty bowl still on his lap as he lets his eyes close, head back against the couch and not worrying about how sore it will be when he wakes up in the morning.

-

“Tucker’s Souvenir's, Niall speaking, how may I help you?” 

Harry’s been staring at the same spreadsheet all morning, trying to work out their order two weeks from now when the phone had rung, Niall racing from the back room to answer it.

It’s been a slow morning, for the most part. Niall had done the count and recorded numbers in the book while Harry had put away the order that had arrived the night before, stacking and organizing things like shirts and sweaters in their usual place. 

Niall laughs loudly before saying, “you arsehole. Yes, yeah get me that chicken burger thing you got me last night,” he pauses once more, turning to look at Harry as he covers the end of the phone with his hand, “do you want anything?”

Harry stares for a moment. “Anything for what?”

Niall smirks, as if he somehow knew Harry was going to ask him that. “Lunch. My friend’s bringing something over. Do you want anything?”

“I’m okay. I brought something —”

“Get him that roast beef thing,” Niall says into the phone, disregarding Harry’s protests, “yeah, yeah fuck that’s so good too.” Then, rather defensively, “no, no I want the chicken burger, Jesus. Okay. Okay, see you soon,” before hanging up. 

“You’re gonna thank me later,” Niall says before going into the back room, leaving Harry to his spreadsheets.

Harry shifts on his stool, collecting the orders from the past few weeks and a list of their current inventory, wondering how on earth he’d gotten stuck here, of all places. His back is sore and he can’t focus, the words blurring together as he sighs, loudly. The tea he’d brought this morning is cold, undrinkable as he debates going to buy another one when Niall gets back from his break.

A woman and her daughter come in a few minutes later, chatting to one another as they look through shirts and sweaters. Harry watches them for a moment, tapping the end of his pencil on the top of the desk but before he can ask them anything they’re back out the door, the bell going off as he watches them walk past the window and down the street. 

So far today he’s got to finish this spreadsheet and clean and organize the back room, and it’s just past one now. 

“Are you still coming on Friday?” Niall asks from the other end of the counter a little while later.

Harry turns off the computer screen in defeat, deciding not to bother with it until he’s had lunch. “Friday?” he repeats.

“You said you’d come out with me and some friends on Friday. Promised, actually, if I do remember,” Niall says, rather pointedly.

He turns the pencil in his fingers, nodding slowly. It’s not like he has an excuse, except to say he’s doing his laundry which there’s a rather big chance Niall won’t buy anyway.

“Right. Friday. What time?” he asks.

“Seven. You get off at six, so you have plenty of time,” he informs Harry.

“Have my schedule memorized do you?” Harry asks, Niall rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off. I just don’t like you moping around this town with no friends,” Niall says, as if this is supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t.

Harry decides not to argue, closing up the records book as he puts it underneath the till. He’s also got to count those later, he reminds himself, putting the pencil in the small cup where there’s other items like pens, pencils, along with some coupons Niall had been saving tucked in the bottom of it.

“I’m gonna go make the schedule,” Harry says, not even sure if Niall’s listening now as he goes into the back room. 

There’s a note from the owner, Cal, reminding him of how to make the schedule as he sits down at the small desk near the coat hangers. According to Cal it should take him an hour at most to put together a schedule for the next two weeks but Harry has a feeling it might take him a little longer than that, because right now he’s feeling a little lost. 

Along the wall behind the desk are pictures, mostly of Cal and his family, Harry notes. Some are older, more worn around the edges and some are newer, pictures of him and his kids on vacation, him and wife, and he realizes how many pictures they didn’t have around his own house, back home. There was one of his father and mother on their wedding day, just in the living room by the television. The other was at a family reunion two summers ago, sitting in the kitchen on a small table, though you can hardly find Harry in the picture, squished near the back with a handful of other family members.

But he doesn’t think about that. Instead he focuses on a piece of paper telling him everyone’s schedules, going over the different names in different colours of highlighters, trying to keep track of everything. 

From the storefront he can hear the door open, assuming it’s Niall’s friend in question as Harry bites down on his lower lip. For some strange reason he keeps thinking about when he’s fifty and Cal’s passed on the store to him he’ll still be doing this, sitting back here, making a schedule and using the same colours of highlighters. 

He doesn’t hear the knock on the door to the back room and he only knows someone else is back there with him until he hears a voice. “Hi, I um — Niall said you’d be back here so I thought I’d introduce myself and bring you some lunch —”

Harry turns and, there’s Louis. He’s wearing a coat and is extending what appears to be a takeout box toward him as they both pause.

“Louis,” Harry blurts.

“Harry,” Louis says, sounding equally — if not — more surprised.

“I, um. I hope you like roast beef?” Louis offers and if Harry didn’t know any better he’d say he was blushing, though hardly noticeable in the terrible lighting of the room.

“Thanks,” Harry says, taking the box as Louis clears his throat.

“No problem,” he says, leaning back on his heels, looking at Harry briefly. “Niall’s waiting though, so —” Louis trails off, walking out the door as Harry follows behind him.

“So you two met did you? What’d I tell you Lou? He’s all posh and proper,” Niall teases, grinning happily with himself as Harry smiles, forced.

“Very posh, all that,” Louis says in agreement.

They take their seats behind the desk, Louis beside Harry as they open their boxes. It’s uncomfortable, Harry decides as he looks at his food, hooking his feet underneath his stool. 

“Where’s this from?” he asks finally.

“Jerry’s. That diner I keep telling you to go to,” Niall says.

Louis is quiet between them, pausing to look toward the door. “What if someone comes in? Aren’t you supposed to do this in like, shifts?”

Harry nearly laughs, choking on a bit of his sandwich. “We’ve had, what five customers today?” he asks Niall.

“Six, if you count that old man and his dog thinking we were the bakery,” Niall adds.

“Fair enough,” Louis replies.

The sandwich is good, Harry thinks as he wipes a bit of his mouth with a napkin from a paper bag, big red words reading _Jerry’s Diner_ across it. And as much as he wouldn’t like to look at Louis he finds himself staring, eyes trailing as he finds a hint of a bruise just beneath his collar bone, hardly noticeable underneath the cursive writing of the word ‘what’ tattooed across his skin. Harry remembers being very drunk and telling Louis he liked his tattoos, especially that one, and that when they got out of the cab they were in he was going to mark them very thoroughly. He also recalls Louis giggling into his neck, hands touching his waist as he had hummed in agreement.

Apparently Louis is possibly recalling the same moment, drinking rather large sips from his water bottle as Niall talks about something Harry isn’t listening too, most likely what they’re doing on Friday.

“So you’re coming?” Harry asks, looking to Louis.

“That alright?” Louis asks, rather serious.

“Of course it is,” Harry says, truthfully, as Niall glances between them. He gives Harry a look but doesn’t comment, instead throwing a napkin into the garbage.

The rest of the time they occasionally touch elbows, both of them apologizing possibly too much and making a habit of not looking at one another and for the most part, it works out well. Or as well as it could, probably.

By the time they’re all done it’s a little after one thirty, Harry taking out his wallet, trying to find some money to give to Louis until he hears a noise of disapproval.

“It’s alright,” Louis says, shaking his head even when Harry gives him a look, “honestly.”

And so to not prolong the moment Harry puts his wallet back into his jeans, shaking his head but not saying anything.

“Friday?” Niall asks, looking at Harry pointedly as Louis opens the door, just a little.

“Friday,” Harry says in agreement.

“Seven o’clock. Don’t be late,” he warns before walking out the door, letting it fall shut behind him as Niall continues to stare at him.

Harry looks at him, brows furrowing and holding up his hands as if to defend himself, though he hasn’t a clue why that would be since he’s done nothing wrong. “Stop that,” he says as sternly as he can muster.

“What’s up with you two then?” Niall asks, not far behind Harry as he makes his way into the back room to spend the last fifteen minutes of his shift finishing that fucking schedule. 

“Nothing. We just met, that’s all. What’d you expect?” Harry replies, noticeably leaving out the bit where a few nights ago he’d gotten terribly drunk and had let Louis blow him and then made him tea the next morning.

“Fine. If that’s the story you’re sticking too,” he says before leaving the back room and Harry with the temptation to bash his face in off the corner of the desk.

-

Ben shows up a little after three. Harry’s just taken a shower, wearing a pair of worn track pants and one of Liam’s old sweaters when there’s a knock at the door. Truthfully he’d nearly forgotten about the whole thing, trying to decide what he should have for dinner, finally choosing a sandwich when he’d gone to answer the door.

“Mr. Styles?” the man before him asks as Harry opens the door further, giving them space to step inside.

“It’s, um. It’s Harry,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible as Ben smiles briefly, walking further inside.

“Right then, Harry,” Ben extends a hand and Harry shakes it. “Have you lived here long?” Ben asks, a clipboard tucked under his arm as Harry shrugs.

“About a month now,” Harry says, having to think for a moment before answering.

Ben nods, opening the clipboard and taking a pen out of his pocket. He doesn’t look like a heater fixer, not really, because he’s wearing jeans and a nice sweater. Not that Harry knows what heater repair men are supposed to wear, but still.

“And what seems to be the problem?” 

Harry leads him toward the console in his room, opening the small panel as he turns up the temperature, then looks back at Ben. “I change the temperature and nothing happens. It’s still cold as fuck —” he says, pausing as he blinks. “Er, it’s, cold.”

He doesn’t comment on Harry’s choice of words, instead stepping forward and fiddling with a few buttons on the console. It’s quiet, Harry doesn’t want to disturb him as he stares intently. Silently he hopes Ben doesn’t tell him this whole time he’s never actually turned the heating on and make him feel like some sort of idiot as he shifts his feet, slightly.

“My guess is it’s the heater itself. So, it’s gonna cost you.”

Harry groans. The last words he wanted to hear. “Are you sure it’s not just the console?” he asks, almost sounding desperate as he does.

Ben shakes his head. “There’s no air coming out of your vents. If it were just the console you’d at least still have hot air coming through,” he explains. Harry feels sick.

His bank account is not looking very good as it is, and he certainly cannot afford whatever estimate Ben is going to come up with him. But he doesn’t say anything, watching as he writes onto a piece of paper, walking around his flat and poking at random bits of wall and vents. 

The estimate is. Expensive. At this rate Harry has to learn how to live with no heat, he thinks as he reads over the paper. 

“It looks like a lot,” Ben begins, probably noticing how tense Harry’s become in the past few minutes, “but I’m sure if you talked to your landlord they could help you, with the bill. Or possibly even cover it all themselves,” he suggests.

Harry nods, still trying to absorb all the information, reading and re reading the paper once more before putting it onto the counter. “I’ll um,” he begins, trying to keep his voice calm, “I’ll figure it out.”

“The next two weeks are pretty busy but sometime after that I can come by and fix it. Shouldn’t take two or three days, at most,” Ben says.

“Thanks. I’ll give you a call then,” Harry tells him as he opens his door once more. 

Ben’s looking at him with an expression almost apologetic as he gives Harry a business card and a wave before walking off down the hallway. Harry stares at the card for a moment. There’s a picture of Ben and who Harry would assume to be his father, along with an animated furnace to the left corner, waving it’s long arms as he sets it on top of the estimate. The cost for fixing the heating alone is nearly a month of his paychecks, which he still needs for things like rent and laundry and Jesus fuck, this was not what he signed up for.

The first idea that came into his head was to go home but, he can’t do that. Not after going through all the effort of moving here. Though he can only imagine what his parents would have to say about this.

His mother would tell him that it’s not worth the trouble of fixing, and to come home. His father something along the lines that his flat had cost too much anyway, and the amount of money he’d be using to fix the heating could be used for better things. Then again he could call his landlord tomorrow and see if she’ll help pay for some of the bill, like Ben had said. 

So he stares at the paper a while longer, somehow under the impression that if he does the numbers will go down. They don’t and he’s left feeling more frustrated than before, taking his plate of food into the living room and sitting down at his small table.

He’s still got to make the schedule, all the papers spread out as the tv plays quietly in the background. Maybe he could take a second job, or something. God knows there’s probably some small store that’s hiring part time. He could presumably do a few shifts a week, save up enough and get the fucking heating fixed.

It’s not until he’s reading over Niall’s preferred hours that his phone goes off, ringing a few times beneath a few papers as Harry picks it up. He assumes it’s Ben with something or other about his estimate today, not bothering to check the number as he picks up.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, noticeable and when Harry’s about to hang up when they speak. “ _Hi._ ”

It’s Liam. Harry swallows, feeling immediately guilty as he closes his eyes.

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Probably because the last time Liam saw Harry he’d been drunk and whining about how much he hated Holmes Chapel, how much he wanted to leave, all the while clinging to Liam as they walked down the street. Liam had listened as Harry unhashed his plan about leaving, how he was going to pack his bags and go without telling anyone. And he had. Problem was he hadn’t told anyone. Not Ed, not Gemma, not his mother, not even Liam. Well, technically he _told_ Liam he just. Hadn’t told him when he was leaving.

“ _You finally picked up,_ ” he begins and Harry feels his throat tighten, “ _was beginning to worry you’d gotten a new number or something,_ ” Liam says. He sounds just about as tired as Harry feels.

“No,” Harry says, pausing for a moment as he leans his head back. “Not a new number. Just busy. Work.” He explains.

Liam’s upset. Harry knows that, and he knows he has every right to be. He just hates this. What he’d been trying to avoid this whole time. The feeling of guilt and long pauses and words that both of them want to say but don’t say them, instead sitting on the other line and waiting for the other person to speak.

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Brighton,” Harry tells him truthfully. There’s no point lying to him. “I’m um, I have a flat. It’s shit and the heater's broke but, it’s something.”

There’s no response, not that Harry had been expecting him to say anything, really. “Are you at school?” Harry asks.

“ _Yeah, I’m in my dorm room,_ ” Liam says, though Harry can hear hesitation in his voice before he talks again. “ _It’s nice, I guess. My mom gave me way too much food so I’m still trying to find a place for it all._ ”

Harry smiles, faintly, almost laughing because he can picture it so clearly. Liam sitting on his bed, staring at piles of food and clothes all piled up around him. If he was still in Holmes Chapel he’d probably be there now, yelling at Liam to unpack, being generally unhelpful and sprawled across his bed.

“That’s good,” Harry says.

 _I work in a souvenir shop. It’s fucking awful but my co worker is cool. You’d like him I think._

_I met someone. His name is Louis. He’s beautiful and he scares the shit out of me, Liam._

_I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you._

His mind is reeling with things he could say, things he wants to say but doesn’t, staring at his unfinished work in front of him.

“ _Are you ever coming back?_ ”

In all honesty Liam has a right to ask, but Harry selfishly wishes he hadn’t. “I dunno,” he says.

“ _Course not,_ ” Liam snaps. He’s frustrated and Harry feels a small pang in his chest at that, hearing Liam’s harsh tone that he never, ever uses. Not unless it’s something serious, something that’s been eating away at him.

“How’s she doing?”

Harry figures if they’re going for the hard-hitting questions he can have a go at this one.

“ _That’s not fair, Harry._ ”

“Please, Liam.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples in the same way he did when they were little, whenever he was frustrated and didn’t know what else to do. 

“ _She’s alright, I guess. Called me the night you left, asking if you were with me. Said she’d already called Gemma and you weren’t with her._ ”

“What did you tell her?”

“ _I told her you were gone, Harry, what else was I supposed to tell say?_ ”

Not the truth, Harry thinks as he takes in a deep breath. “But she’s alright though?” he asks.

He remembers his phone buzzing incessantly most of the drive up, sitting in the cup holder as he’d gone down the highway, the roads dark and mostly deserted. But he hadn’t picked up a single call, not one, as he’d kept his hands on the steering wheel and ignoring the ache in his chest, the way it tightened as he tried not to think about it. But they were all from her.

“ _As good as she can be, I guess. Have you talked to her at all since you left?_ ” Liam asks, almost accusingly.

“No. I’ve been meaning to call but — no, I haven’t,” Harry admits.

“ _What’s this even about? Because it’s not about your mom and the only other thing I can think of is —_ ” Liam stops himself because he knows that he can’t say it, can’t bring it up. They’ve never discussed it but, Harry’s made it pretty clear they aren’t supposed to talk about it. “ _It’s been almost a year, Harry. I thought you said you were okay._ ”

Harry swallows, throat suddenly dry as the realization hits him. It’s almost been an entire year.

“I am okay. I’m great, actually.” That’s a lie but Harry doesn’t correct himself, instead continuing, “this is what I needed to do, Liam. I thought you’d understand that.” He’s not being fair, he knows that, he does. But he can’t stop himself, because he doesn’t want all the blame on him for this, even though he was the one who got in his car and drove away. 

Liam laughs, loudly, and it startles Harry for a moment when he does. “ _Understand? You think I’d understand and what,_ defend _you? For leaving your family and your friends and fuck off to a town four hours away?_ ”

And it’s strange, because for some reason Harry knows he’d been hoping for that. That Liam would defend him, stick up for him and yet somehow Harry knows it wasn’t fair of him to assume, because he’s not sure he would’ve done the same for Liam, if the roles were reversed. He’d probably be just as hurt and angry, truthfully.

It’s just, it’s _Liam_. Liam’s always been there. Never faltering, never leaving his side. Then again, Harry supposes it makes sense he was the first to leave without warning. He was always the weaker of the two of them.

_I’m not as strong as you._

“No, I guess not,” Harry says finally, nearly muttering as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have some work to do so, I should go.”

“ _Fine yeah. Go._ ” Liam replies.

“Liam?”

He’s not sure for how long but there’s a pause, noticeable and drawn out. When he doesn’t say anything Harry speaks again, “I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m sorry too,_ ” Liam tells him before hanging up.

There’s a minute where he stares at his phone, almost in disbelief that the call had actually happened before setting it down beside him, the name Liam Payne flashing across the screen as he keeps it there. It’s almost funny because he’s felt lonely since moving here but now, with Liam’s words still in his head he feels possibly even more lonely, pulling his knees his chest and breathing in and out, in and out, repeating that because it’s something he knows. Something familiar to him in this new world of aches he’s not used too.

-

By the time Friday comes about Harry’s been thinking about it so much he’s dreading the whole thing. At work he’d spent most of his shift shut in the back room, finishing that fucking schedule and trying to think of something he could wear that’s clean and sort of appropriate to be seen out in public with. Though they’re only going to be a bar, according to Niall, so it’s nothing fancy.

Truthfully Harry’s been more worried about how he’s going to pay to get his heating fixed. Also his rather disastrous phone call with Liam that had happened a few days ago, which is probably the most prominent in his thoughts, honestly. He’s debated texting him, or calling him back, but each time he picks up his phone the urge fades and he feels stupid for even considering it.

He’s also nervous because he’s seeing Louis again tonight, so. There's that as well. 

“So where’s this bar?” Harry asks, putting on his coat, hanging up the finally finished schedule in it’s usual spot above the computer in the back room.

“Just down the street from here,” Niall begins, motioning to the right with one hand. “Past the pet store.”

Harry didn’t know this town even had a pet store, but he nods regardless.

“It’s called Mainmast,” Niall says, pointedly ignoring the face Harry makes in response. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to say anything else before leaving the store, walking off the street and leaving Harry to watch him go, slightly annoyed.

It’s getting colder, noticeably so, as Harry pulls his jacket closer once stepping outside. When he’d woken up this morning there had been frost on his window and he had been shivering, even underneath this three blankets, curled up on one side of his bed. Not even his tea had helped, his toes and fingers never quite warming up as he’d gotten ready for work.

He still doesn’t have any idea for how he’s going to get his heater fixed. Last night he’d called his landlord a number of times but she hadn’t picked up which was about the time he remembered she’s on vacation until next week. So even if she did pay for the heater to be fixed, it wouldn’t be for a little over a week. Brilliant. He can only imagine the headlines in The Brighton Beacon. Boy Freezes To Bed Because He Was Too Poor To Get The Heater Fixed! 

On the way home he deposits his check from work, frowning at his still lack of money as he stuffs the receipt in his pocket, continuing down the sidewalk. He’s got to get home, shower, and get changed before going over to the Mail Post. Or MailMast, or whatever the fuck it was Niall was talking about he can’t remember the name anymore.

It’s fucking cold in his flat (no surprise) as he spends an extra ten minutes under the warm water coming from his shower head, singing some old song his mom used to play incessantly when he was younger. 

The next forty minutes pass by rather quickly, Harry moving about his flat and looking for something, anything, to wear. There’s a number of articles of clothing now strewn across his flat, tossed aside and put on things like the couch and his kitchen countertops. He finally settles on his usual pair of jeans, a white shirt and a plaid one overtop of it. 

For about two minutes he debates even eating dinner, deciding on a slice of bread with some peanut butter messily spread across it, taking his phone and leaving his flat. 

Though he’s still wary about the whole thing. But, like Niall said, he wasn’t going to let Harry mope around town by himself forever. So he has to go, really. 

Maybe it won’t be a huge fiasco. Maybe. Possibly.

The streets are a little more empty than usual as he walks along the road from his flat, reading each sign as he passes them until he finally finds it. Right next to pet shop, as Niall had told him. _Mainmast_ it says as Harry pushes open the front door, stepping inside where it’s thankfully far warmer than out.

He blows into his hands, warming up his still slightly frozen fingertips as he glances around. The first thing he notices is the green carpet beneath him, bright and outdated as he winces, just slightly. The second is that the bar is packed. There are people standing, sitting, playing pool, covering almost every square inch of this entire place.

Maybe Niall had meant another bar. A less crowded one. One without almost the entire population of Brighton put inside of it.

So he turns to leave until he hears a familiar voice.

“Harry! Over here!”

It’s Louis he realizes almost immediately, who’s smiling widely from behind the bar and motioning him over. Harry follows his gestures, ending up at the bar and sliding onto an unoccupied stool near the far end.

“You’re the first one here, unsurprisingly,” Louis comments, as if this is something Harry should be proud of. “What can I get you?”

He’s wearing an apron, hands on his hips and looking attractive and helpful, or, more so willing to help, which Harry is sure doesn’t make sense. He looks eager, possibly, is a better phrase there.

“I — um, I dunno, I’m not too picky,” he says and Louis nods.

A few moments later he’s got a beer bottle coming toward him, uncapped and cold to the touch as he tries not to noticeably shiver. “Right, well. That’s not too picky. Easy and fast,” Louis says with a small smile.

Harry doesn’t say anything except nod, taking a sip. The beer is cold but it’s good. Better than good, actually. 

“No cups?” Harry asks.

“Too many of them back there. I don’t want to wash them,” Louis tells him with a shrug, “wait, hold on then.”

There’s a couple at the bar who flag Louis down, who proceeds to make them whatever drinks they ordered, talking to them as the woman laughs, tilting her head back. Louis just keeps talking and she continues laughing until he hands them their order, a man approaching the bar as Harry watches quietly, continually sipping his beer.

His phone buzzes. It’s Niall. _Be there soon ! Sorry !_

Harry taps out a reply. _It’s fine! I found it. With Louis :)_ and sends it as he sets it back onto the bar beside his arm. 

“Did you know,” Louis begins, putting a bowl of peanuts in front of Harry and bless him, honestly. “That beer you’re drinking was brewed, right here in Brighton?”

Harry smiles, he can’t help it, as he inspects his bottle. Sure enough, it says right on the label clear as day: _Proudly Brewed in Brighton_. 

“Fascinating.” Harry says, partly sarcastic as Louis rolls his eyes, excusing himself to serve a group of people approaching the bar now.

He picks at the peanuts, eating a small handful of them as he glances over toward Louis once more. He’s just so calm, standing there with two glasses in his hands, laughing at something the man had said across from him. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, Harry observes as he leans back just slightly, tipping some more beer into his mouth.

It makes him feel a little less tense, the added stress from today lessening between his shoulders.

“So you’re real then? Niall didn’t make you up?” a voice comes from beside him now as Harry turns.

“Zayn, darling,” Louis says warningly over his shoulder, “be nice. You don’t want to scare away Niall’s only friend do you?”

“Piss off,” comes Niall’s voice now, pulling up a stool beside Harry. 

Harry glances to the other boy, Zayn, who’s now to his right. “Zayn Malik.” He introduces.

“Harry Styles,” he replies as they shake hands, briefly, before Louis places two more bottles in front of both Niall and Zayn.

“Don’t listen to anything he says,” Niall says, pointing to Zayn. “He’s fucking crazy.”

“Fuck off. At least I don’t work in a souvenir shop.” He pauses, looking to Harry. “No offense.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s most glamorous job,” Harry tells him in agreement.

“Who was the one who let you tattoo all my fucking fruit when you first started out? I couldn’t eat bananas for weeks because of you,” Niall says, pointing an accusatory finger as Harry laughs, quietly.

The two are bickering now, voices getting louder as Harry glances to his beer bottle. He re reads the label, beginning to pick at it as the paper begins to peel off rather easily, already soaked from the condensation. The bar’s rather full now, music playing throughout above the conversation. It's nice, Harry decides. Because he can hardly hear himself think. 

He finds himself looking at Louis again because. Well he doesn’t have a reason except Louis is nice to look at, which is good enough for him. He’s talking to an older gentlemen, handing him what looks to be a glass of wine, or something as equally classy. As Louis leans forward the man begins to whisper in his ear, putting a possessive hand on Louis’ forearm as Harry pushes himself from his chair, away from the bar until he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t.” Zayn says, firmly. “He’s fine.”

Harry doesn't say anything, instead looking back at the other end of the bar. Sure enough Louis has removed the man's hand from his arm, face serious and pointing toward the door as they shake their head, walking off toward a table as Louis rolls his eyes. 

"Asshole," he mutters as he comes closer, handing Harry another beer bottle without prompting. 

"You alright?" Niall asks. Louis nods and no one says anything else on the subject. 

"I'm done in twenty unless I can convince Leigh-Anne to let me off early," Louis tells them with a wink, opening the back door as it swings closed behind him. 

"Probably won't. I bet she’s pissed he didn’t do dishes," Niall bets. 

Zayn nods in agreement. “She did threaten to fire him last week.”

“Like Leigh-Anne would fire him. He’s the best she’s got.”

Harry’s only half-listening to them, mostly staring at the top of the bar as he blinks, slowly. He’s tired. His beer and a half are already starting to take an affect on him, making his limbs feel heavy and his eyes difficult to keep open. 

“Let you off did she?” Niall asks as Louis grins, near triumphantly when he exits the back door a few minutes later. 

“Course she did. I offered to come in early tomorrow,” Louis explains, taking his own beer bottle as points to a booth near the back. “That one’s open.”

“Grab me another beer?” Niall asks, another one being handed to him as the four of them make their way across the floor.

The booth is in the far corner as Niall’s the first to slide in, Zayn beside him. Louis goes on the other side of the booth, Harry beside him as he leans back against the padding of the bench. His head is spinning just slightly, making everything just a little blurred around him.

“Do you sing?” Niall asks, as Harry laughs.

“Rarely,” he says, shrugging. “Why?”

“Because it’s karaoke night,” Zayn supplies as Harry nods, slowly. “And Niall’s going to try and force you to sing a Michael Buble duet with him.”

Louis snorts. “Or Spice Girls,” he adds.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Harry tells him, truthfully.

There’s a man up on the small stage singing a country song, holding the microphone close to his mouth and singing rather loudly. It smells like beer and smoke, not uncommon for a bar as he looks around for a few moments. Him and Ed used to frequent a bar downtown a fair bit, mostly because Ed would bartend for bigger shows and Harry would take to keeping him company. This one’s smaller though and he hardly recognizes anyone, save for the three boys around the table.

He’s made a pile of the small pieces of paper from the label of his beer, Niall talking about something to do with football Harry can’t quite follow, pretending to listen as he takes another drink from his bottle.

“I’m gonna get us another round,” Niall offers, Zayn standing to let him out of the booth as he makes his way toward the bar.

Louis and Zayn are talking and Harry’s still only half listening, hands folded over his stomach as he takes in a deep breath. It’s not like he’s trying to engage in conversation anyway, which he should probably do.

But then, two things happen. Niall comes back from the bar and gives everyone their drinks before sliding back into the booth and Louis’ hand comes to rest on his thigh. The first one is less surprising than the second, only because his hand is warm and gentle, thumb running against the fabric of his jeans as Harry blinks, trying to figure out if this actually happening or not.

Louis doesn’t look at him. Instead he’s still carrying on a conversation with Zayn, laughing and smiling and Harry’s soon finding his touch on his thigh helping to clear his head, makes it easier to focus on things. Though he doesn’t dare move, and Louis makes no effort to put his hand elsewhere.

“See this then?” Zayn shows Harry, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his left arm. “This, is why Louis can’t be a tattoo artist.”

Harry almost laughs when he sees it. There’s a mark across Zayn’s skin, sort of resembling a heart but more so has the shape of a square, he thinks, looking at it for a few moments.

“You can’t just show him that without any sort of prompting, you dick. You were just telling me about how you almost fucked up Matt’s arm last week,” Louis snaps, trying to sound angry but he’s still smiling.

“I like it.” Harry interjects, but he’s laughing now and Louis grips his thigh before laughing loudly from beside him.

When Niall drinks he laughs louder and his cheeks flush, Harry notices after a while. He also has a tendency to sing old Irish songs, apparently. Zayn seems to somehow spread out across the booth, his limbs somehow longer when he does and his speech slower, words slurring together. But he smiles bigger and he keeps playing with Niall’s hair, who doesn’t seem to mind one bit, pressed to his side.

Louis has one beer, nursing it throughout the night and taking the occasional sip. But his hand never leaves Harry’s thigh, still warm and fingers pressing lightly against him and it makes his cheeks flush but, he likes it. So he doesn’t move and neither of them comment on it, instead cheering loudly when Niall goes up on the stage and sings into the microphone.

He could get used to their company, Harry thinks as he listens. 

“So, lads. What do you think? Should we keep him?” Niall asks, arm around Harry’s shoulder as they’re leaving the bar a little while later.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, poking Harry’s cheek, “I like him. He can stay.”

From beside him Harry hears Louis laugh, quietly, bumping into his arm gently as they walk along the street. 

“I second this,” Louis adds.

Harry smiles, but decides not to comment as reach the end of the street. 

“I vote,” Niall begins, “we split up. Make it home faster, now that there’s four of us.”

Zayn’s got his arm around Niall’s waist as Harry looks to Louis, checking for any hints of protest at this suggestion but sees none. Instead Louis presses a hand to the small of Harry’s back, gently leading him down the sidewalk as Zayn and Niall turn down the street.

“This alright?” Louis asks when they’ve taken a few steps, the fresh air sobering him a bit as Harry looks toward him.

“Course,” Harry says.

They walk in silence for a bit, Louis still close to him despite the rather large sidewalks, not that Harry wants to him to move. He’s warm and close and he smells like beer and fresh laundry, Harry thinks as he puts his hands into his pockets. 

“Still in the same flat?” Louis asks.

It’s the first time they’ve acknowledge it, Harry realizes. So he clears his throat, desperately hoping Louis can’t see the way his neck is flushing red as he nods. “Same one,” he says. And they both don’t comment, deciding that that was enough of the subject. 

A silence settles between them and Harry should find it uncomfortable, but something about it feels peaceful, somehow. His phone is like a weight in his pocket, with the unanswered phone calls from his mom and him and Liam’s conversation always replaying in the back of his mind. 

“I have a friend,” Harry begins, though he’s not sure why he’s talking. But Louis is silent, so he continues. “And he — he always used to say that we should just fuck off for a weekend and find a small town somewhere and just stay there for a weekend.” 

He nearly laughs at the memory, because Liam had been truly drunk off his ass, ranting on about how they could go anywhere and not know anyone and it could be terrifying and fun all at the same time. 

Louis has his hands in his pockets but he’s still quiet, so Harry keeps going without any sort of prompting. 

“I hate swimming. But he loves the water, so he always insisted it had to be a town by the water, no matter how much how much I argued.” He’s not even sure where he’s going with this, suddenly lost in his memories as he swallows thickly, his head pounding and that same, real ache in his chest. “I don’t know, fuck, I just. I think I should’ve taken him with me, instead of coming alone.”

The walk up to his door feels long, Louis keeping in step with him and it’s strange, considering the last time they’d been here together Harry had been sucking on his neck while trying to open the door at the same time. It’s still Louis, Harry thinks, looking impossibly small on the step of his door as they stare at one another for a moment, faces dark in the dim light from the streetlamp at the end of the parking lot.

“It’s only a four hour drive, you know.”

And Harry knows if he asked, Liam would visit him. Possibly. He’s not sure the chances of that since their conversation on the phone the other day but, he could still try. Harry fiddles with a button on his jacket, biting his lower lip, sucking on it to try and keep the warm tears in his eyes from falling onto his cheeks.

“I know.” Harry says finally, because Louis is right, after all.

They stand there for a moment and Harry wonders what would happen if he kissed Louis. He’s tempted, especially when he sees the smaller boy run his tongue along his lower lip, no doubt chapped from the cold fall air. 

“Thanks for walking me home,” Harry says, trying to find his keys in his coat pocket.

“I’m glad you came tonight, Harry,” Louis tells him, sincerely. “I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, Louis.” Harry says with a wave, watching him walk off down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and head bowed the entire way. 

-

His mom’s birthday is on October seventeenth. The day’s marked on his calendar, written at the bottom of the box though he doesn’t need the reminder.

She was never one for big parties. One year him and Gemma had thrown her a surprise party which had, no doubt, taken her by surprise. The house had been packed, people continually walking through the door as she had spent most of the evening talking, chatting with people she hadn’t seen in years. She had looked happier than he’d seen her in years that night, her face bright and almost youthful under the light of the kitchen and leaning against the counter.

He has the day off work on her birthday. For most of the day he spends looking at his phone, debating if he should call, or if he should leave it. He’s not entirely sure, going back and forth constantly as he walked along the Brighton Pier. There’s clouds in the sky, no sunlight in sight as he stands on the edge. 

“Don’t fall,” Gemma told him when they visited the pier, just before his grandmother’s funeral. He wore his only suit, pressed and wrinkle free as his parents had taken them out for ice cream. Her hands had been on his waist, pushing him forward as Harry had gripped her hands, holding tight at the thought of going over the edge.

His mother had noticed, telling Gemma to leave her brother alone as she’d huffed some sort of reply, walking away as he peered over the edge. The water still looks the same, dark blue and moving underneath him as he looks at it for a long while. It’s almost like he’s six years old again and his only worries in life are making sure his suit stays nice for the funeral. 

The wood of the dock is old, some bits chipping away as he’s careful not to get a sliver underneath his nail, picking some of the wood up and tossing it into the water. He can’t see his reflection, the water too dark and moving too fast but he prefers it that way.

His father had gotten him mint chocolate chip ice cream, Gemma calling it an abomination as Harry had ignored her, holding his cone firmly in his hand before going back to the edge of the dock. The ice cream store is still there he notices, though now looking older as he hears the wood creak beneath his weight. And instead of going home and paying his bills like he should Harry gets into his car, closing the door and driving.

When he’d first started driving his father had taken it upon himself to teach him. It became a thing, taking Harry out some evenings but always Sunday afternoons. They would go nowhere in particular, his father telling him where to go, what turns to take, half the time getting them horribly lost without any sort of regard for anything else except making sure Harry knew how to drive properly. Even now, as he drives down the highway it’s almost like his father’s beside him.

“Ease up on the gas, Harry, Jesus what do you think this is, a racecar?”

“You don’t need to grip the steering wheel so tightly. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Stop pressing on the brakes so much you’re going to wear them out.”

Sometimes when he keeps the radio off it’s like he’s driving around on Sunday afternoons again. Harry looks at his hands, noticing how tight his grip is, as evident by the whiteness in his knuckles. 

The drive always feels less than four hours, driving down the same highway at the same speed with his eyes on the road. It feels hardly like thirty minutes, the time spent behind the wheel as he sees familiar imagery passing on either side of him.

 _Welcome to Holmes Chapel! We hope you enjoy your stay!_ the sign greets as Harry feels a sense of panic spread through him. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Brighton, away from all this.

But he doesn’t turn around, instead turning onto his street, the sky already dark as he spots a familiar home. Number twenty-seven it reads, hardly visible behind his mother’s elaborate garden on their front lawn. He’s been gone for months and it’s hardly changed, everything almost exactly how it had been when he’d left. So he stops, parking in front of the car as Harry looks inside.

The lights are on in the kitchen, showing who he assumes to be Gemma and his mother, his Uncle Ted and Aunt Lucy, his cousin Emma and Uncle Brad. They’re all there, around the table as Harry doesn’t move, watching them silently. She’s in front of a cake, or what looks like a cake in front of her. Probably blowing out the candles, since she always makes such a big deal out of that every year.

“Make a wish Harry, you don’t want to waste it this year now do you?” She would always tell him, kissing his cheek as he’d puff up his cheeks, trying to blow them all out.

And he wants to get out of the car. He wants to go to the front door and ring the doorbell, but he doesn’t move. He can’t bring himself too. So instead he stays, taking his phone out of his pocket as he brings up the house number, still under the contact Home, he notices.

It rings. No one makes any movement to pick it up, most likely drowned out in all the noise. There’s a few until the answering machine starts, _hello! You’ve reached the Styles. We’re not in right now but we’ll call you back when we can!_

“Hi, mum,” Harry begins his message, his voice already shaking and oh God, he needs to pull himself together. “I just wanted to call and say happy birthday.”

“I didn’t know if I should call or not, I don’t know why because it’s your birthday and calling you should’ve been the first thing I did,” he stops for a moment, taking in a deep breath before continuing, “but I wanted to call and tell you that I love you, and I hope you had a good day. I got your messages I just — things have been busy. I work alot so I just, haven’t found a good time to call you back, I guess. Either way, happy birthday. Again.”

He bites his lower lip, trying to keep himself together. He thinks about Brighton, about the Pier, and tries to tell himself that he made the right choice by leaving.

“I’ll, um. I’ll talk to you soon,” Harry says before hanging up, leaning back against his seat and feeling his shoulders shake as he — just this once — lets himself go. 

But he doesn’t let it go on long before wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, starting his car again and pulling out from in front of the house. The lights are still on but Harry focuses on the road, staring ahead and gripping the steering wheel tight because if he lets go now there’s a large chance that he’ll turn around and go back.

When he gets home he falls into bed, dead to the world and eyes closing before he even hits his pillow.

-

Harry’s stressed, to say the least.

He’s almost late to his shift and he’s on the phone with Ben, trying to eat his eggs, put on his pants and schedule a time for him to come and fix the heater without collapsing onto his face. It’s proving difficult. Apparently because Ben is booked until two weeks from now on Monday, the first of November, and Harry hasn’t a clue if he’ll be working that day or not.

“I’ll most likely be working,” Harry tells him, swallowing a bit of his eggs and taking a sip of his tea. He’s got ten minutes. “That’s alright though? That I won’t be there?”

“Makes no difference, really. And your landlord said they’d pay for most of the bill?” Ben asks.

“Yeah, I called her a few days said. Said she’d cover a little more than half of it,” Harry tells him, taking a sweater and jacket from his bedroom floor.

“Alright. So I have you penciled in for the first of November, Harry.”

Harry smiles, briefly, hearing his name. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“See you then,” Ben says, hanging up after his goodbye.

Eight minutes till he’s officially late, Harry realizes as he mutters a long string of curse words, not bothering to touch his breakfast dishes before walking out the door, locking it behind him. On the way over he checks his phone, but there’s nothing there as he sighs loudly before pocketing it once more.

He’d texted Liam a few nights ago, when he’d been sitting on his couch feeling sorry for himself with a mug of ramen noodles in his hands, the only source of warmth as he’d remembered his conversation with Louis. 

_I was thinking. Maybe you should come visit one weekend? See everything for yourself? xx_

It’s been four days, and no response. If Harry wasn’t so fucking terrified he would’ve called Liam and demanded him to come this weekend but as it stands he’s not that person, apparently, instead continually checking his phone like a bad habit and frowning when he gets nothing in response. 

“Sleep in did you?” Niall says as soon as he opens the door to the shop, laughing loudly when Harry flips him off in response.

He rubs his eyes that already feel heavy, hanging up his coat and punching in for his shift at the back computer. It’s only a five hour shift, two to seven, yet he has the feeling as though it’ll pass a lot slower than that. He’s closing by himself tonight, since it’s a Wednesday and the chances of them being even remotely busy are very much impossible.

When he comes out into the storefront he sees Niall at the till, bag at hand as Harry sits at his usual stool.

“If you need anything, don’t call me. I’m going to a show tonight,” he says as Harry snorts. “You can call Lou though. I think she's around,” he adds.

“Thanks for the tip,” Harry says sarcastically, but Niall doesn’t comment on it, instead waving as he closes the door, leaving him alone in the shop as he looks around.

According to Niall’s note he’d organized this morning, put things in order and tidied up the back room which leaves Harry not much else to do. Cal’s back so he doesn’t have to worry about the schedule, shifting in his seat and checking his phone again. Still nothing. 

All he’s really got to do is sweep, count the tills and serve any customers that come in. So he takes one of the magazines Niall keeps piled under the register, opening it as he reads.

It sort of reminds him of afternoons when he was in high school. When he finished a little after three he’d go to his father’s travel agency, sitting at the front desk and manning the phones while his dad finished up a few work related things in his office. Harry hated it for the most part, it was boring and all he did was answer phones that hardly ever rang half the time anyway. But he had gotten paid for the few hours, returning home to dinner and relaying to his mother all the boring phone conversations he’d had.

His father always used to say that Harry would take over the family business, with the same proud sort of look on his face, hand firm on Harry’s shoulder as he talked. Though he hardly saw the appeal in taking over the business, the idea of being a travel agent something Harry could never see himself doing.

Of course when the whole business had tanked that conversation had never happened again. It was almost like they hadn’t even existed, his father never acknowledging it from then on after that. Though Harry can recall one day he’d brought it up unintentionally, watching his father’s eyes narrow and his lips move into a thin line. It had been the last time he’d ever brought it up after that.

A few people filter throughout the store, though none of them commit to buying anything as Harry regrets not bringing a book or something to entertain himself with as he turns to the storefront computer, turning it on. 

He’s got a few emails from his sister, Gemma, most of them filled with death threats and things like _email me back so I at least know you’re alive, please. Asshole._ with a few hearts on the end of it. The next few with pictures of her at school, the last one of her with a boy Harry doesn’t know. _Not my boyfriend, in case you were wondering. If you’re even reading this._ Along with a _Ps. Good to know you didn’t forget her birthday. Love you._

So he replies to one of her emails and tells her that he is, in fact, alive. He leaves out the minor detail that he’s in Brighton, instead telling her that he has a flat (with no proper heating) and a job and he’s alright. Because the less he tells her, the less she has to worry about and also the less his mother will worry when Gemma no doubt relays the entire email to her. He also leaves out the nights where he can’t sleep and lays in his bed, covers tucked beneath his chin, unhelpful in keeping him warm as he picks up his phone, always debating if he should call or not. He never does, but instead he tells Gemma that he’s enjoying it, and that he’ll see her soon. It’s short but, it’ll have to do.

For some reason he goes on Facebook next, aimlessly scrolling through as he sees pictures of Liam at school, doing track, or something. Either way he’s running and he’s wearing terribly short shorts that Harry makes a note to mock him for if he ever texts him back. There’s some of Ed, doing small gigs and recording in a studio just outside of Holmes Chapel. He finds a message from him as well, sent a few weeks ago, just after Harry had left.

_liam said you’re gone so, thanks for the heads up i guess? i dunno. miss you. i mean, you stayed in my flat for almost two months so i would be lying if i said i didn’t miss you walking around almost stark naked and whining about how much you wanted me to make you food. i’m recording, in case you didn’t know. just a little label, nothing major or anything, so don’t freak out on me like you always do. my flatmate’s a bit of an asshole but i’m sure i’ll get over it._

_if we’re all going for being honest here, i’m worried about you. i dunno. just, let me know you’re still on this planet, or something, okay?_

Harry re reads it, imagining Ed’s voice as he goes through the words, his free hand gripping the edge of the counter as he exhales, quietly. So he types a reply to Ed, similar to the one for his sister, except he tells Ed he’s in Brighton. Because he knows Ed won’t get into his car and drive down here to yell at him, much unlike something his sister would do. Then again the chances of Ed telling Gemma are rather high but he doesn’t care.

There’s a few birthday messages from before he’d left, along with a picture of him and Liam at his birthday party. They’re both laughing, Harry’s head in his shoulder and Liam’s arm around his shoulder. He remembers it being fucking hot in that bar, the music loud and people wishing him a happy birthday every few seconds. 

He closes the tab before he does something ridiculous like comment with a simple miss you on the picture. 

With no more emails and no more Facebook he decides to take his fifteen minute break, leaving a sign on the door saying he’ll be back before heading a few shops over to the small coffee shop. He recognizes the barista, who asks him if he wants his regular caramel latte as he nods. 

The shop’s about as empty as his own as he takes his drink, heading back out into the cold air and the warmth of the shop, flipping back the sign and checking his phone once he sits back down again. There’s a text from Ed.

_good to know you’re alive, dick._

Harry leans his arms against the top of the desk, holding his phone between both his hands as he replies. _Like to keep you on your toes, Sheeran ;) How’s recording? xx_

Half the time Ed’s shit at replying so he’s surprised when his phone buzzes less than a minute later. 

_s’alright, pretty cool. i’ve got a gig this saturday, opening for this guy called passenger. you’d like him i reckon._

He’s about to reply when there’s another text. _so. brighton innit?_

 _What time? Where? Maybe I can come, if I can get off work._ He can get off work, he knows that already. Niall owes him for a shift Harry covered for him last week when he’d been too hungover to come in anyway. _Yeah, it’s nice here, dunno. By the water so, that’s nice? :)_

He’s skimming an article about what sort of golf clubs are best in certain types of weather when Ed replies again. _it’s in lynch, like an hour from you, i think? anyway it’s at eight thirty. some pub called the horseshoe, or something. it’d be sick if you came. Along with a reply of if i recall you can’t even swim, you idiot._

Harry laughs, he can’t help it because Ed’s right, he can’t swim. _I’ll be there. xx_ is all he sends to him.

When he checks again all it says is _Read 5:47 PM._ Harry locks his phone and continues to read through Niall’s golf magazine, flipping the pages and turning on the radio beside him.

He could go alone, or he could take someone, like Niall. Possibly Zayn. Maybe Louis. Or Liam. Probably not Liam, he thinks, remembering that his text had gone unanswered. 

With no one in sight of the store he starts sweeping, moving around the store as he grips the broom tightly in his hands, possibly shaking his hips a bit at the music playing through the speakers. It’s a way to keep himself awake, at any rate. 

The sky’s been cloudy most of the day, a small rain pour starting as Harry sets the broom back against the wall. It takes him all of five minutes to count the till, putting the receipts together in a pile and in the back room to be collected tomorrow. He’s got a little less than an hour left, groaning to no one in particular except himself as he sits back down onto his stool.

Somewhere between going back on Facebook and reading another golf magazine his phone rings, loud from the countertop as Harry pauses. It’s possibly Liam, or Ed, he thinks as he answers it finally.

“Hello?”

“ _Harry? Harry babe, is that you?_ ” 

He freezes immediately, hearing his mother’s voice. His throat feels dry and any and all words have seemed to escape him as he blinks, trying to breathe.

“ _I got your message, yesterday so I thought I’d — give you a call,_ ” she begins, almost as if fearful he’s going to hang up on her if she doesn’t keep talking. “ _Is this a bad time?_ ”

“No,” he chokes out finally, trying to steady himself. “No it’s fine.”

“ _Are you at work?_ ” 

Harry looks out the window, a few people passing by as he clears his throat. “Yeah, almost done though. Get off at seven.”

“ _Is it a bakery? Like where you worked back home?_ ” 

“No it’s um —” he pauses, trying to think of some kind of lie, but comes up blank. “It’s a souvenir shop. Nothing very exciting.”

“ _Are you alright?_ ”

She doesn’t ask where he is, she doesn’t ask anything except if he’s okay. 

“I’m alright,” he says, though it’s hardly convincing. “How was your birthday?”

“ _It was lovely,_ ” she says and he can imagine the happy look on her face as she talks now, “ _Gemma took me out for breakfast in the morning, then I had a few of your Aunt’s and Uncle’s over for dinner. It was nice._ ”

Harry leans against the broom, pressing his weight against the wood handle as he listens. “That’s brilliant, mum. I’m glad,” he says, truthfully. “I should — I should go though, finish some stuff up here at the store…”

“ _Right, of course. I’ll let you go._ ”

“I’ll call you later, when I’m less busy,” he promises. 

“ _Alright, baby._ ” Her voice is wavering and he tries to focus on something else when he hears it. “ _I love you._ ”

“Miss you,” Harry blurts, without even a second thought to it.

“ _I miss you too. Goodnight, Harry._ ”

“‘Night mum,” he says, hearing the dial tone ringing a few seconds later.

He sets down his phone and locks up the store, half an hour early than normal but doesn’t even give it a second thought as he walks home, vision blurred by the tears still in his eyes the entire way back to his flat. 

-

It’s not that Harry had intentionally meant to ask Louis with him to Ed’s gig. It’s mostly that when he’d brought it up with Niall, Louis had happened to be there. And when Harry had said he didn’t have anyone to go with, Louis had offered. And so that’s mostly how it had happened, really. Niall promised to take his shift and just like that he and Louis are going to Ed’s show, in Lynch, on Friday night.

Not that Harry’s nervous, or anything. Because that would be ridiculous. 

_Is it okay if I bring someone? Not like, a big deal, or anything. xx_ he texts Ed Thursday night when he’s laying in bed, unable to sleep and listening to the rain against his window.

_hmmm should be fine. anyone i know?_

Harry scrunches his nose, now feeling slightly embarrassed as he squishes half his face into his pillow. 

_His name’s Louis, I met him here. He’s cool._

_cool. see you both there ;)_ Ed replies as Harry groans, putting his phone on his bedside table and burying his head somewhere underneath his pillow. It’s not a date, he tells himself as he drifts off into a light sleep. It’s not. They’re just going to see a show.

And it’s not a date when he changes into his nicest pair of jeans and one of his favourite shirts, checking his hair briefly in the mirror. They’re just friends, so what if he’s checking his hair? He’s going to see Ed anyway, that’s what this is mostly about.

When he arrives to the address Louis had sent him he’s already waiting outside, looking good, if Harry does allow himself to think. He gets into the front seat, putting on his seatbelt as he glances to Harry.

So they drive. Harry doesn’t really care what’s on the radio as he listens to Louis talk, the two of them discussing things like Brighton, Niall’s questionable taste in music, and how they’d all met apparently in high school.

“He’s a friend of your’s? The guy playing?” Louis asks when they’re nearly there.

Harry nods, switching lanes on the highway, hands on the steering wheel as he keeps his eyes ahead. “We met at one of his gig’s a few summers ago,” he reminisces briefly, “then I sort of crashed at his flat for a few weeks last year.”

Louis is smiling, leaning back against his seat as Harry turns on his windshield wipers to combat the rain starting to fall onto the window. 

“Was that back home? Where you’re from?” he asks.

The question shouldn’t make him uncomfortable but it does, Harry nearly squirming in his seat as he runs his thumb along the worn out steering wheel. “From Holmes Chapel, yeah,” he answers.

He doesn’t ask any more questions and Harry is secretly thankful for that, following the highway until he takes the first exit, Louis directing him to the small pub, apparently along the main street of the downtown area. It’s unfamiliar but they somehow manage to find their way, a bit of parking down the street as they get out of the car. 

The pub itself isn’t hard to find, following a line of people going into a small building as he glances to Louis beside him. “Have you ever been here before?” he asks, almost sounding nervous.

Harry shakes his head. “Never,” he says and Louis nearly looks relieved when he does.

It’s packed once he and Louis get inside, Harry staying close behind him as they try and wade through the crowd. He debates pulling out his phone and calling Ed to see where he is but decides against it, looking around to see if can possibly spot his red hair in the crowd.

They get their drinks, now trying to find a place to sit until there’s a voice a few feet away.

“Harry!”

Ed hasn’t changed much, not that Harry had expected him too when he finally spots him. He’s wearing one of his old t shirts, but there’s more tattoo’s on his arm, Harry notes as he pulls him into a hug.

“Surprised to see me?” Harry teases, smiling widely. 

“A little, to be honest.” Ed says truthfully, keeping his arm around Harry’s shoulders as he turns to Louis now. “You must be Harry’s friend?” 

“Louis,” he says, taking a step forward as Ed shakes his hand briefly.

“Nice to meet you,” Ed says, before looking around a bit. “Christ, it’s full in here innit? Did you guys find a place to sit?”

Harry shrugs. “There’s a table over there I think,” he says, “doesn’t really matter anyway. When does your set start?”

“About two minutes, or something, so I think I should be going. But I’ll find you after, yeah? I’ll meet you at your table,” Ed says.

“Sure, we’ll wait a bit,” Harry says before glancing to Louis, “that okay?”

“Fine by me,” Louis tells him as Ed grins, seemingly satisfied.

“Brilliant. I’ll see you guys after then.”

The table’s small, three chairs around it as Harry sits, Louis beside him. He can still see the stage, a few heads blocking the way to see a stool and microphone as Harry leans back comfortably. He’s about to ask Louis if he needs something, maybe another drink when Ed walks out onto stage. Harry catcalls and Louis laughs, Ed glaring in Harry’s general direction as he tunes his guitar.

“Thank you for that,” Ed says into the microphone, smirking as he strums his guitar once, twice, three times before he’s satisfied with the sound. “Hello everyone, my name is Ed Sheeran. And I’m rather thrilled that you’re all here, to be honest.”

And Harry watches as he begins into his first song, singing with that familiar voice he knows so well and filling the entire pub with it, making it go silent as he does so. He’d always found it amazing, how Ed could quiet and entire room by singing a single line and suddenly everyone’s listening to him. 

The set is good. Really good. When he plays his new stuff Harry can say he’s very much impressed. The thing about Ed is that he’s always been good. Fucking brilliant in Harry’s mind, since the moment he’d first heard Ed play almost two years ago. It had been after a party, everyone else gone to bed as they’d sat outside in the backyard. There had been empty beer bottles and garbage everywhere as Harry had listened, leaning back on the palms of his hands, feeling the grass dig into his skin when Ed had started singing. Since then Harry hadn’t really thought about that moment, only really remembering it each time he goes to one of his shows. Because he’s always reminded of how much he’s missed Ed’s voice, no matter how long it’s been since he’d heard it last.

Louis’ knee knocks into his own sometime during the set and he doesn’t move it, the two sitting beside one another and listening. Just listening. 

Since he’s opening he only plays a few songs, not as many as Harry’s used to for his usual gigs, telling everyone he’s got a new ep available when he’s done. 

“It’s been great, thank you, all of you, for being such a good audience,” Ed says before walking off stage, people clapping and making noises as Louis leans toward him now.

“He’s fucking brilliant,” Louis says. Harry nods in agreement.

“He really is,” he says.

About midway through the second song of Passenger’s set Ed takes the open chair beside Harry, pulling up beside them as he sets a stack of presumably his CD’s onto the table.

“So. What’d you think?” he asks.

Harry turns, shaking his head as he ruffles a bit of Ed’s red hair. “Fucking amazing, Ed, honestly. Your new stuff sounds so good,” Harry says.

“I second that,” Louis adds as Ed grins, not even bothering to try and hide it. 

“Right. Well. In that case —” he picks up two CD’s from the table, hand one to each of them. “On the house. For your shining reviews.”

Both Harry and Louis make noises of protest but Ed shakes his head. “Don’t wanna hear it. Take ‘em.”

So neither of them argue, instead listening to Passenger who Harry also likes, he decides. But mostly he likes this pub, he likes having Ed beside him, and he likes feeling Louis’ knee against his own. And he likes this. He’s comfortable, he’s warm, and he doesn’t ever want to leave.

“Do you work with Harry then? Because if you do, I’ll just have to apologize for him in advanced,” Ed asks when the music’s done and the radio begins to play over the speakers.

Louis smirks, shaking his head. “‘Fraid not. He works with my friend Niall though. Says Harry doesn’t do anything except bugger off into the back room for his entire shift,” he teases.

“Heyyyyyyy,” Harry drawls, his first beer long finished and now sipping a glass of water. “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“No,” Louis says, giving his wrist a gentle squeeze. “I guess not.”

Ed clears his throat, as if interrupting something when he does. “But you work where again? A shop?” he asks.

“Souvenir shop. There’s a high demand for Brighton shirts to be sold, you know,” Harry says, sounding serious.

“Of course. Shirts, all that. I imagine your store is busy every day,” Ed says before turning to Louis. “Where do you work?”

“I’m a bartender. Nothing too glamorous but, it pays the bills.” He replies.

“Better than a souvenir shop, I’d imagine,” Ed says as both he and Louis laugh now, Harry pouting from his chair.

The night continues like that. Easy conversation, Ed mocking his job, and Louis giving him gentle touches of reassurance, almost like apologizes in response. They’re brief and half the time before Harry can even wonder if they’d actually happened they’re over, Louis already having his hands folded in his lap and listening to whatever Ed was saying.

By the time they leave it’s almost one o’clock in the morning, Louis yawning into the back of his hand as they step outside. Fucking freezing, Harry thinks as he pulls his jacket closer. 

Louis and Ed say their goodbyes before he excuses himself to Harry’s car, walking up the street as Harry turns to Ed now.

“Louis?” Ed asks. But Harry knows what he’s really asking, he’s known Ed long enough for that.

“A friend.” Harry says simply. 

“Right. A friend.” Ed repeats, deadpan.

“He’s just. He’s nice. I don’t know. We get on well,” Harry defends, not sure why he’s even defending himself in the first place.

“I can see that. I think everyone in the bar could see that,” Ed says.

“Anyway,” Harry says, attempting to change the subject, “it was good to see you.”

“You too,” Ed says in agreement, pulling Harry’s shoulder into a hug.

And it’s strange because he still smells like it. Smells like home. Something familiar, Harry thinks as he grips the fabric of Ed’s sweater.

“I think we’re going to listen to this the whole way home,” Harry says, holding up the CD when they’ve pulled apart.

“Shut up.” Ed says, though still smiling as he takes a step backward. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Harry nods. “I won’t. Promise.”

He turns, walking back down the street and toward his car and ignoring the blatant ache in his chest as he opens the driver’s side door. Louis is there, quiet as Harry gets in. They don’t say anything when he starts the car, and it’s silent except for Ed’s CD playing as they drive.

“Gonna miss him,” Harry says finally, when they’re almost home.

Louis hums, looking over toward him from the passenger side briefly. “I know.”

They don’t say it but the question is still there, sitting between them, louder than the music playing. 

_Then why did you leave?_

-

When Liam finally texts him back it’s almost two weeks after the fact.

 _I’m freeee this weekend ????_ is all it says when Harry reads it. It’s Thursday. Liam would, he thinks, tapping out a reply.

 _I don’t work on Friday? xx_ he sends back, wondering if maybe it’ll take three weeks for him to respond now as he tosses his phone back onto his bed in defeat. 

_I can comeeee in the aftrenooon??????_ Harry reads when he checks his phone about ten minutes later.

He pauses, debating briefly with himself. This is what he had wanted, after all. Liam to come visit him. So he tells him to come whenever, but just to text him when he leaves so he can have a general idea of when to expect him. 

He’s got today off, mostly sitting around his flat and doing some odd cleaning, watching whatever’s been on tv. 

_Oookay i’ll probably leaveee around 3 after my lasttt classss_

And without giving it a second thought Harry puts on his jacket, out the door and leaving his phone on his bed, text unanswered and walking down the street, a few blocks over until he reaches a familiar building. He needs to get out of his flat, away from his phone and away from all of it as he goes to the first place that comes to his mind.

It’s about six in the evening, a little early to start drinking but he doesn’t really care, pulling up a stool and sitting on it.

“You alright?” comes a concerned voice. Louis, Harry notes when he looks up.

“Yeah. Just — I dunno. Long day,” Harry tells him.

“Beer?” Louis asks. 

“Please,” Harry replies, sounding possibly a little too grateful.

Louis slides one over toward him, not asking but instead serving an older lady a few seats over. It’s quiet, Harry notes, only a handful of people seated throughout the bar as he takes a long sip of his drink. It’s better than the usual chaos. Easier for him to think. 

“Are you hungry?” Louis asks him, propping his elbows up against the bar in front of him. “We could share a plate of fries. Tom makes the best around.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, as if questioning him. “Is that so?” he asks as Louis nods, “alright then. Let’s do it.”

“I’ll be back,” Louis tells him before going into the backroom. 

The lady a few seats down is staring at her wine glass, unmoving and Harry can relate, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep at this very bar and not ever wake up. 

But before he can even begin to think about sleeping a plate is set before him, Louis not saying anything as he motions toward it. Harry blinks, feeling as though he’s doing some sort of test as he picks up a fry, taking a bite as he makes a point to chew slowly.

“Well?”

“Not bad,” Harry says and Louis smiles, satisfied. 

It picks up a little after that, Louis going between customers and getting drinks ready from behind the bar, occasionally laughing at something someone says. 

“How long have you been working here?” Harry asks sometime later, when it’s quiet and Louis has eaten a little more than half their plate of fries.

“Almost three years,” Louis tells him, “didn’t want to go to uni, so I picked up this job instead.”

“And Niall?” Harry asks.

“The same. Except he went galavanting around Ireland for a year before coming to work at Tucker’s,” he replies.

“Sounds about right,” Harry says.

“You lived in Holmes Chapel?” Louis asks, dipping his fries in a bit of gravy he’d saved to the side of their plate. “Did you go to uni?”

“For two years. But, I dunno. Didn’t know what I wanted to do afterward, so I just sort of — dropped out,” Harry says.

Louis stares at him for a moment, looking as though he wants to say something but stops himself. “What did you study?” he asks instead, wiping a bit of the bar with a damp cloth as Harry lifts his arms, giving him more space to clean.

“International relations with a minor in English,” Harry says. Louis looks impressed.

“Any idea what you wanted to do?”

“None. So I dropped out.” 

Louis smiles a little, almost in understanding. “I didn’t want to spend all that money when I wasn’t sure what to do study so I just never went,” he says.

“Did Zayn go?” 

“For a year, but after he got the job at the tattoo parlour he didn’t go back,” Louis explains.

When Harry finishes his first beer Louis gives him a second one, tossing away the bottle wordlessly.

It’s nearly after ten and Harry can hardly remember why he’d been upset in the first place. Possibly about his heating, possibly about the amount of money he’s going to spend fixing said heating, or also possibly because Liam is visiting him tomorrow. Regardless he feels warm all over and Louis is smiling at him so it couldn’t be all that bad, could it?

“He’s coming to visit,” Harry blurts when Louis is stacking a few bottles.

“Who?”

“Liam.” Harry begins, finishing his drink. “I texted him a couple of weeks ago and he never replied and now, suddenly, he wants to visit. Gives me a day notice, which is so unlike him. I’m always the one changing plans and springing things on him, but he’s done it this time.”

Louis gives him a sympathetic look. “But he’s coming though. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“I have to pay for my heating to be fixed, too. I mean not — all of it? But a bit of it. And I don’t know if I can afford even that, how fucked up is that?” Harry laughs, though it’s hardly funny. “I’ve been freezing my ass off all this time and he’s coming next week and I don’t even think I can afford it by then. And what do I do, call my mum? I’ve hardly spoken to her since I moved here, I can’t just call her up and ask her for money. Because I know she’d give it to me.”

There’s a man singing along to the song on the radio, dancing with no one as Harry watches him from the corner of his gaze, familiar warm tears stinging his eyes. 

“I don’t know why I told you that. I just —” He moves his fingertip around the edge of his bottle, focusing on the movement and not daring to look up at Louis. “I thought when I got here, everything would change, you know? Everything that happened I could just … forget, somehow.”

It should worry him that Louis hasn’t said anything, but Harry doesn’t mind. Half the time if he’d talk about any of this stuff people would try and bullshit him with answers, try and tell him things that weren’t true. 

“But I can’t forget. It’s just me in that stupid flat and all I can do is think about everything that’s happened. I mean for God’s sake all I do is drink tea and watch Say Yes to the Dress on tv when I can’t sleep,” he admits.

“Channel eleven?”

Harry looks up, nearly knocking over his bottle. “Starting at midnight?”

“Oh God, I watch that like, every night. My flatmate gets so fed up with me but I can’t stop,” Louis says, grinning into the back of his hand.

“Even if I’ve seen it before I just keep watching,” Harry says as Louis nods in agreement.

“It’s a serious addiction, honestly. I tried to make Niall watch it but he got so annoyed he started playing my guitar and not even paying attention,” Louis says before adding, “fucking Niall.”

“My sister’s obsessed, she used to force me to watch it with her some nights.”

“My mum loves it. Everytime I come home it’s all we watch after my sister’s have gone to bed,” Louis says.

He has sisters. Harry didn’t know that. “How many?” he asks, watching Louis’ brows furrow in confusion, “sisters. How many sisters do you have?”

“Four,” Louis answers easily, “trouble though, all of them. I think you’d get along with them, actually.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“No reason,” Louis tells him with a wink, leaving Harry to figure it out on his own as he walks off.

They close earlier on weeknights apparently, at eleven thirty when Louis puts a cloth in front of Harry. 

“Make yourself useful then,” Louis tells him, pointing to the tables. 

Harry opens his mouth to argue but decides against it, seeing the large pile of dishes Louis has to bring to clean in the back room. He picks up a few abandoned glasses and plates on the tables as he places them in a bin underneath his arm. It’s a bit awkward as he balances it against his hip, wiping down the tables.

When it’s all said and done he watches as Louis locks the front door, pulling on the handle once to make sure it’s done properly as he turns back to Harry. There’s a small takeaway box in his hands as they start down the street. 

“Don’t you live just down there?” Harry asks, motioning to the street they’d just crossed.

“Gotta walk you home first. Be a gentlemen, all that,” Louis says.

It’s cold out but Harry’s cheeks feel almost uncomfortably warm as he turns his head just slightly, hoping Louis won’t notice the colouring in his cheeks as they walk along. 

“Sorry,” Harry finally says.

Louis looks at him, confused. “For what?”

“For saying all that stuff, earlier, I dunno. It just sort of — came out.”

The thing is, Louis has never asked him anything or made Harry talk. He’s always just been there. So when Harry starts to talk Louis listens and something about that makes him feel more safe so he keeps talking. It’s a cycle, apparently. One he can’t seem to break. Not that he’s made any real effort too.

“I’m a bartender, Harry. I’m used to it by now. Besides,” he pauses, shrugging his shoulders, “you don’t talk about yourself much. It’s good to talk things out, you know.”

“I suppose so,” Harry says, glancing down to the sidewalk.

“Bring by your friend tomorrow,” Louis suggests when they turn down onto Harry’s street. “I only work until six, we could all do something after.”

“Do something as in —” 

“See a movie, get food, I dunno. Anything really.”

“Alright,” Harry says, “he’ll be in probably a little after seven so, I’ll text you?”

Louis snorts, clearly amused. “You could text me. If you had my number.”

Harry rolls his eyes, motioning his hand. “I left my phone in my flat.”

“Of course you did,” Louis quips, handing over his mobile as Harry grins.

He puts in his number, along the name Harry Styles and hands it back to Louis wordlessly. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“See you then,” Harry says.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Louis.”

When he gets back to his flat there’s a text on his phone reading _don’t freeze to death alright ?_ with a second one reading _it’s lou , in case you didn’t already guess . :)_

_Try not too but no promises. I don’t think I know a ‘Lou’ but goodnight anyway ;) xx_

_goodnight , asshole ._ :)

There’s also a voicemail as Harry checks it last, listening to hear Ben’s voice on the message telling him that he needs to reschedule the appointment, again, as Harry groans, falling back onto his bed. He doesn’t bother changing, pulling the sheets over him and deciding to sleep and try to forget about it instead.

-

Gemma emails him the next day. He checks it just after he’s woken up from a nap, blinking blearily and rubbing his eyes to try and read his screen properly. The floor is cold against his slightly warm feet, putting the kettle on as he leans against the counter.

_Mum said you talked to her the other day. I think she’s a bit calmer, knowing you’re alright. She misses you though, Harry. We all do._

He continues reading as she talks about school, complaining about her roommates (there’s one who keeps eating her food, apparently. Another one that has a terrible habit of snoring loudly, particularly in the early hours of the morning) and a new job she’s apparently picked up, tutoring some afternoons. 

_I hope you’re okay. I’m still pissed at you but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. Email me back, okay? Love you._

The sun’s bright, warming up his flat nicely for a change as he tries to think of where Liam could sleep. Most likely his bed and he’ll sleep on the couch, because there isn’t a lot of space for any other plan, really.

From the counter his phone buzzes. _Changeee of plansss, i’m almosttt there !!!!!! :)_

Harry blinks. It’s a little after five, he realizes with a fair bit of panic. He sends a Can’t wait to see you! xx before taking some clothes and taking a shower. There’s dishes to be done and he’s still got to put a few unopened boxes into the hall closet all before Liam gets here he realizes sometime between washing his hair and rinsing the soap off his body.

With a towel around his waist he closes his laptop, making a note to email Gemma back later, when Liam’s gone and he has a minute to think. He’s about to text Liam and ask him just how close he is until he gets another text.

_U gonna let me in orrrrrrrrr ;)_

There’s also another one from Louis. _how do you feel about drive-in movies ? niall and i want to see the new die hard_

Harry curses, throwing his towel into the bathroom, now changed as he opens the door, walking down the stairs and finding Liam standing in front of the entryway into his flat. 

It’s awkward at first, when he opens the front door and sees Liam there. They stare at one another for a moment and Harry’s sure he’s about to regret this whole thing until Liam steps forward and hugs him tightly. Harry pulls him closer, that same ache in his chest when he’d seen Ed a few weeks ago as they stand there for a moment.

“Found it alright?” Harry asks, taking a step inside.

“Got a little lost, to be honest,” Liam admits as they start up the stairs. “The street names here are bloody confusing.”

Harry laughs as they make their way up to his flat, running a hand through his still wet hair as Liam looks around, quietly.

“So I was thinking —” Harry begins, walking toward his bedroom, “you could sleep in here and I’ll just, take that couch over there,” he suggests.

“You sure?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, ‘course I am,” Harry tells him easily.

He puts on more tea while Liam sets his things into the bedroom, Harry hearing his footsteps as he moves about. Apart from Louis and Ben Liam’s the first real guest he’s had in his flat since moving in, and he can already feel the difference from it being just himself in this flat, only listening to the sound of his own footsteps.

“Did your heating get fixed yet?” Liam asks, taking the mug of tea Harry hands to him when he re-enters the kitchen.

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet. Coming next week, apparently,” he says.

“It’s nice though. I like it.” Liam says, sipping his tea. “Suits you.”

Harry’s not quite sure what Liam means, but somehow it makes sense. “I still need to paint,” he says after a moment, “just haven’t gotten around to it, I suppose.”

Liam’s here. Liam’s in his kitchen. Liam actually came, Harry thinks in almost disbelief. “And you like it?” he asks finally. Almost hesitantly, Harry thinks.

“I like it,” Harry says, trying to sound as truthful as he can.

“All that matters then I guess,” Liam replies.

When they were younger and Harry was having a bad day, somehow Liam always would know. He wouldn’t even have to say anything and he could somehow always guess, telling Harry it was obvious the way he’d frown, just slightly from the corner of his mouth. And that’s always stuck with them because no matter how much he tries to hide it, he’ll always be an open book to Liam. 

And even now, standing there, Liam knows. Harry can see it in the way he cocks his head just a little to the side, no longer sipping his tea but holding it in his hands instead.

“I’m fine.” Harry answers the question he knows Liam’s been wanting to ask since he’d arrived.

“I don’t believe you.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, almost laughing because Harry knows, he knows he’s not okay but a part of him wants to think he is despite what Liam does and doesn’t believe. Wants to keep fooling himself every day because it’s less difficult that way. It’s so much easier to hold himself together, he thinks. 

“You don’t have too,” Harry says firmly.

It’s almost like he’s defending himself, trying to convince everyone that he is, in fact, fine. That’s mostly why he’d left, because half his time was spent telling people that he was alright, and that he was going to figure his life out eventually. After awhile you just get tired of saying the same things over and over when it’s not like anyone is listening to you anyway, Harry had realized. So he’d packed his car instead.

“What’s all this about?” Liam doesn’t fancy around the bush. Never has.

“Nothing. It’s about nothing. It’s about me wanting to get out of Holmes Chapel and actually do something with my life,” Harry snaps, fingers curling around the handle of his mug.

“By what? Working in a souvenir shop? Brilliant plan Harry, really.”

“So this is why you drove four and a half hours? To lecture me on all the choices I’ve made?” Harry’s voice is getting louder now, because no matter what he says Liam still isn’t listening.

“I drove four hours to come and see you after you left with no warning,” Liam says pointedly. “I came because you won’t talk to me, Harry, you won’t talk to anyone for God’s sake —”

“That’s because you won’t fucking listen,” he interrupts, feeling suddenly bold. “No one listens. They tell me that everything’s going to be okay, and that I’m just grieving and it’s all a load of shit, Liam. Even before he died we weren’t —”

He stops, stops himself before continuing, rubbing a hand over his face. “We weren’t okay long before that,” he finishes, voice softer now.

“You think I didn’t realize that?” Liam asks, nearly sounding offended. “That I didn’t see how tired you were? Or those bruises on your skin that would show up every once in awhile? Because I did notice, Harry. I’m your best friend I’m not fucking blind.”

Harry looks at Liam, really looks at him as he turns, dumping the rest of his tea down the sink. 

“We should go. We’re late,” Harry announces, clearing his throat.

“What are you talking about? Late for what?” Liam asks.

“For the drive-in,” Harry tells him, leaving no room for argument as he texts Louis they’ll meet him in ten minutes.

-

“The last time we were here,” Louis begins, pressed to Harry’s side in the back of Zayn’s truck, “Niall was so drunk he threw up — just over there.”

None of them are paying attention to the movie except for Zayn, who gave up getting everyone to quiet down about five minutes into it. Hopeless, Harry thinks with a small smile on his lips.

Niall scrunches his face in unhappiness at the memory, tossing a small handful of grass toward Louis. Liam’s quiet to his left, though he does smile a little, Harry notices.

“To be fair, the movie was shit,” Niall says as Harry laughs.

He and Liam didn’t say much on the drive over, Louis introducing him to Niall and Zayn when they’d first gotten out of the car. Now they’re here, piling into Zayn’s truck and driving to some field about ten minutes away, so it’s not like they’ve had much of a chance to talk. Which was what Harry had been hoping for, truthfully.

They’re not really paying attention to the movie anymore, the beers Louis brought opened as Harry leans back against the side of Zayn’s truck.

“Right then,” Louis says, breaking the silence as he nudges Harry’s side lightly with his elbow. “I think it’s time for a little truth or dare, don’t you reckon?”

Zayn groans. “Can’t we, I don’t know, watch the movie instead?”

“Fat chance,” Niall says as Louis grins.

“Liam?” Louis asks, Harry watching him glance up from where his hands are twisted in his lap. “Truth of dare?”

“Um,” Liam considers, licking his lips. “Truth.”

“Who was your first kiss?”

There’s a pause as Harry buries his face in his hands because he knows what answer is coming. “Harry,” Liam says before bursting into a fit of laughter, “it was Harry.”

Niall snorts, loudly, while Zayn makes a sort of amused face, Louis making a muffled noise in response. “It’s not like — a big thing,” Harry tells them, trying to downplay it, though judging by the roar of laughter Niall gives him in response he’s not ever going to live this down.

“We just. Harry kept asking what it would be like to kiss a guy so, I don’t know. I offered.”

Harry chokes on nothing. “You did not offer I asked and you said yes,” he argues, indigent. 

“Liam,” Louis says after a moment, before either of them have a chance to say anything else, “your turn.”

If Harry didn’t know any better he’d say Louis was jealous, judging by the annoyed look on his face and the way he rolls up his sleeves, not looking him in the eye as he motions for Liam to continue.

“Niall,” Liam says. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he responds immediately.

“Put your underwear over your pants and run in front of the screen.”

Niall shrugs, as if it’s no big thing, moving his head from where it was previously on Zayn’s lap and going behind the truck. “Don’t look,” he says with a wave of his finger, taking a few moments before walking toward the screen.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Harry says, feeling Louis’ face pressed into the back of his shoulder. “Does he have any shame?”

“None,” Louis answers.

There’s cat calling while Niall walks — more so struts, actually — his way across the screen, his shadow moving along as some people boo, but he simply waves, smiling widely. When he gets back to the truck Louis is laughing into Harry’s shoulder, feeling his body shake against his own as Harry’s laughing now himself, Zayn rolling his eyes as he cuffs Niall off the back of the head, somehow managing to do so fondly.

“Easy,” Niall says as he gets back onto the truck, between Zayn and Liam. “Harry?”

“Hm?” Harry asks, feeling suddenly nervous.

“Truth or dare, mate.”

“Dare.” He’s had enough truths for one day.

Niall’s grinning widely and it’s making Harry a bit uncomfortable as he shifts, his neck feeling rather warm now as he waits.

“I want you —” Niall says, placing one arm against the side of the truck, “to kiss someone on this truck.”

“What?” Harry asks, but Niall shakes his head.

“You heard me, Styles. Get to it.”

For a moment he’s tempted to tackle Niall and kiss him until his lips bleed but Harry refrains as he takes in a deep breath. Fine. He’ll kiss someone. It’s not a big deal, or anything. Besides, Louis is right there, after all, with his chin perched on Harry’s shoulder so it’s not like he has to move very far.

Liam says something to the effect of, “not me again, please,” but Harry’s not listening as he places a finger under Louis’ chin. He stares at Louis for a moment, as if asking, but he already knows the answer. So he turns his head, leaning down and pressing his lips against Louis’ carefully, slowly.

The last time they’d kissed it had been heated and frantic, quick movements and hot breath mixing together as they’d stumbled into his flat. But it’s different now, Louis pressing back gently as Harry brings a hand to his cheek, taking just a moment to marvel at its softness.

When they pull apart Harry clears his throat, cheeks warm as he imagines Louis’ look about the same as he sees Niall smiling proudly from where he’s sitting. His chin is somehow already sensitive from Louis’ stubble grazing against it as Zayn stands.

“I think that’s enough for one night,” he decides, ignoring Niall’s groan of protest as he takes his keys from his pocket. “Back to Louis’ flat then?”

“What about Jake?” Niall asks as they pack up the blankets.

“With his parents for the weekend, thank God,” Louis answers. “I was planning on murdering him sometime before he left, but I suppose it’ll have to wait.”

He and Niall bicker about the ethics of murdering one’s roommate when Harry turns to Liam, stepping off the back of the truck. “Do you wanna go?” Harry asks.

Liam shrugs. “Why not. Gives you a chance to avoid talking to me, right?”

Harry frowns, opening his mouth to say something until — “are you coming or what?”

He looks at Liam before getting in, beside Louis in the backseat as they drive, the sound of the radio accompanying them.

-

“Was he any good?”

Harry’s on his stomach, the room quiet except for the sound of Niall’s light snoring. Louis is beside him as he leans his head against his arm.

“Who?”

“Liam,” Louis clarifies, his smile hidden in the crook of his elbow, “at kissing.”

“He was alright, I guess. I just mostly remember it being really wet,” Harry says, instinctively touching his lips as does so.

“Mine was like that too. Except it was at my thirteenth birthday party, with some kid named Greg,” Louis says, keeping his voice low, “wasn’t any good though, but he tried.”

“You’re not bad though, you know,” Harry says, rather fascinated with the way Louis bites down on his lower lip when he does.

They’d spent the majority of the evening in Louis’ living room, watching movies and eating food, moving some couch cushions and mattresses (Jake’s, apparently, as Louis had instructed specifically to take into the living room) where they’re all now, sprawled out and asleep, save for Louis and Harry, apparently.

Louis’ breath is coming out in little puffs, warm against Harry’s cheek as he shifts. He ghosts his hands along Harry’s arms, slow and careful as neither of them say anything. 

But then Louis is moving in and Harry isn’t doing anything to stop him, feeling his lips against his own in the same careful movements reminiscent of earlier. Harry kisses him back, insistent and firm, not holding back as he hears Louis inhale sharply in response. 

He feels warmer than he has in weeks, each time Louis brushing against his skin sending waves through him as he slots himself between Louis’ legs, hearing a low murmur in response that he takes as positive. He can feel Louis’ chest rise beneath him in slow, shallow breaths as as Harry threads a hand through his hair.

After a moment he bites down on Louis’ lip, experimenting now if only to keep hearing the noises Louis makes each time he does something new.

“Shhhhh,” Harry whispers, his thumb running along Louis’ jawline as he kisses the corner of his mouth. “Don’t want to wake anyone do we?”

Louis shakes his head, his eyes wide and he bites down on Harry’s thumb, briefly. Harry takes his lower lip between his teeth, sucking until he feels Louis’ tongue against his mouth, insistent as he parts his lips. Harry makes no effort to stop him, bringing a hand underneath Louis’ shirt as he feels his skin, warm and he’s not sure he ever wants to stop touching Louis.

It’s different because they’re both sober now, each movement thought out and plotted, trying to make the other go a little weaker at the knees. Harry’s stomach is in knots, his mind racing as he presses a kiss to the underside of Louis’ jaw.

There’s a bird on his arm, the ink dark against his skin as Harry traces it slowly, his lips moving along it as he feels Louis’ hand in his hair, tugging gently every so often. 

“Harry —” Louis says, voice muffled by Harry’s lips against his own. 

He’s tugging on the waistband of Louis’ pants once, feeling a smaller hand cover his own as Harry whines in protest against the skin of his collarbone.

“Just —” Louis says softly kissing his lips briefly once, twice, “let’s just sleep.”

Louis curls against Harry’s chest, one hand intertwined with his own as Harry kisses the top of his head, briefly. The sun’s starting to come up as he traces his thumb over the inside of Louis’ wrist in careful circles.

“Do you know why I moved here?” Harry asks once he’s sure Louis is asleep.

There’s no answer, no response as he smiles into Louis’ hair sadly. 

“My dad died.”

-

The night before his father’s funeral he’d hardly slept at all.

Most of the night he’d spent moving in his bed, trying to find another position, another way to get himself comfortable and that if he did that, maybe sleep would come. But it never did and he got out of bed the next morning, practically dragging his feet downstairs to find his mother already in the kitchen.

It’s strange what happens to a house when death enters it. Almost like everything freezes, just for a little while, and time doesn’t even pass. Or if it does, it’s at a glacial pace, hardly noticeable with each moment. That’s what his house had felt like, like it had all stopped moving the moment he’d gotten the call while rushing to his next class.

“It’s your father,” he remembers his mom telling him between choked sobs, “he’s gone, Harry.”

And time hasn’t seemed to move right since then. 

Harry had never been close to his father. They lived in the same house and yet he can only remember a handful of conversations with him, brief times when they’d talked about things like the weather, how school was going, trivial things that hardly mattered.

He remembers Liam talking fondly of his father and Harry had always found himself a little, even if irrationally, jealous. Because he never found himself missing his father, not even after he was gone.

Sometimes Harry misses him. But for small things, unimportant things. Like on Saturday mornings when he’d wake up late, walking downstairs to find his father reading the morning paper at the table with his glasses on his nose and brows knit together as he read through the pages thoroughly. The first Saturday without him he’d woken up and gone downstairs to find his mother at the table, crying into her hands as her shoulder shook, Harry pulling her against his chest as her tears wet his shirt.

And that’s when he’d sort of realized that it was his job, then, to hold his family together. To make sure his mom was eating enough, sleeping enough. To make sure Gemma was alright, to help get funeral plans together and make sure everything was going along smoothly.

Because if there was one thing about Harry’s father he remembers, it was that he wanted things to go smoothly. Everything had to have a specific order, or it would all run amuck, as he liked to say so often.

It was always a little funny, in a sad sort of way, how his father’s life had fallen apart so clearly when he’d lost control of it, of his order.

The story begins when his father owned a travel agency. It was small, a rented building in downtown Holmes Chapel, well-known and nestled between a framing shop and a coffee shop. An ideal spot, his father would say, a proud sort of grin on his face. And the thing was, he had been right. It had done well. Extremely well. 

People trusted him and business was growing, far more than anyone had expected it too. That was when he’d decided to expand with two more agencies. 

So he’d opened one in Brighton and another in Carton, all within a six hour drive from their home. And Harry had watched as he’d built an empire for himself. For his family, as he used to say after a few beers, cheeks flushed and Harry tight under his arm. 

“This is for us, you know. One day you’re going to take over for me.”

It wasn’t long after that did things start to fall apart in a slow, unraveling. But no one talked about it. No one mentioned how the business was failing, no one dared too, with his father so on edge.

That’s when his mother had sat him down, sitting on the edge of his bed when he’d looked up from whatever book he’d been reading, closing it when he saw the serious expression on her face. And that’s when he’d found out that it was over. It was over and his father’s business was done, finished.

Which had also been when the drinking had started. And the long nights. And the phone calls Harry would get at two in the morning, being asked to come and pick up his father from the bar because he’s too intoxicated to drive. He would go, putting on whatever sweater he could find in the darkness and drive, leaving the radio off and parking at the side of the street. 

“I’m fine, Harry, I’m fine,” his father would assure him, head on his shoulder as Harry led him out to the car. “Just — a few beers, yeah? Just a few.”

“Yeah dad,” Harry would reply because he was too tired to argue, “just a few beers.”

So he’d started drinking at home which didn’t end well. Harry dropped out of school, not that his father had noticed, because any and all of his time was spent on the couch in their living room.

After he’d died it had been strange, not seeing him there anymore. The tv was no longer on, playing whatever sports was on while his mother made dinner. It was empty, and quiet. The only people that sit on that couch anymore are guests, neither him nor his mother or sister occupying that space anymore. Because somehow it doesn’t feel right.

The funeral was a little over two hours, and yet it had somehow felt like it had consumed an entire week, each moment dragging by slower than the last. People stood at the front and talked, reminisced about their memories of his father, pictures flashing across a projection screen as he’d felt Gemma beside him, his mother dabbing her eyes every so often from his other side.

But Harry couldn’t think of any memories. Couldn’t think of any one moment that stuck out to him, that made him smile and realize how much he was going to miss his father.

And he might have hated himself a little bit for it.

The only thing he could think of was Christmas, when he’d been eight. He hadn’t slept, too excited as he’d gone downstairs, following the string of Christmas lights along the bannister and into the living room where the tree was set up.

There had been movement upstairs and Harry had tensed, hearing footsteps come down the stairs as his father had come into view. And Harry had braced himself for it, for the yelling and the lecturing and the sending him straight back to bed. But it never came. Instead, he’d watched his father pick up a blanket from the end of one of the couches, draping it around Harry’s shoulders and letting him open one present in the secret, silent early hours of the morning.

That’s it. That’s all he could remember, sitting on the uncomfortable church bench and wringing his hands over and over, trying to fucking breathe.

_A loving husband, a treasured father. He will be missed._

“Are you alright?” “It’s grief, darling, it’ll pass.” “You’re going to be fine.” “It gets better. You’ll get better.” 

People kept telling him things and hugging him, always hugging him, with their hands on his head and pulling him closer until it felt like he was suffocating. Like they knew what he was going through, like they somehow could read his every waking thought but if they did, they wouldn’t be hugging him, Harry thought.

Because it almost felt like a relief, with him gone. But Harry never told anyone, instead keeping it to himself and listening to people tell him that he’s alright, that he’s okay, when he’s not actually. 

-

Liam had left the next morning. Harry had taken him home, back to his flat to get his things he hadn’t actually used. 

They’d stood in his living room a while, Liam holding his bags and Harry unmoving from where he stood behind the counter. There was too much to say and neither of them knew how to begin, Harry supposes.

“I’ll come visit,” Harry told him when they were outside by Liam’s car.

“It was good to see you, Harry,” Liam responded.

He remembers standing, watching Liam drive off before going back into his flat and collapsing on his bed, not moving until he had to work the next morning.

From there Harry finds himself a bit useless. He can’t sleep, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t hardly do anything except work when he’s supposed to. Louis texts him but he hardly replies, his mother calls but he doesn’t pick up and it’s like he has nothing to say, nothing to talk about except how tired he is so he figures by not talking to them, he’s somehow saving them from something.

It’s cold as fuck, mostly. So half the time he’s home he spends it on his bed wrapped up in blankets and sitting in front of his portable heater which does next to absolutely nothing.

Today he’s taken to blankets and wearing a few sweaters when his phone rings from his bedside table. He answers it, because chances are he’s going to die of hypothermia in a few hours anyway.

“ _Harry?_ ”

It’s Gemma he realizes after a moment, pausing as he sits up straighter in his bed. “Yeah, I’m here,” he says, rubbing his forehead.

“ _I um —_ ” It sounds like she’s been crying, Harry thinks, as he feels himself tense immediately at the thought. “ _I wanted to see if you were okay._ ”

“Okay?” he repeats, “I know I haven’t called you back but I’m fine, Gemma, there’s no need too —”

“ _No, Harry, not that. It’s._ ” She stops as Harry waits for her to finish. “ _Harry it’s been a year, today._ ”

It’s quiet and Harry tries to think, tries to remember what she could be talking about until she speaks again. “ _It’s been a year since dad died, Harry._ ”

Her words hit him after a moment, making his chest feel like it’s caving in as he inhales sharply, telling himself to just keep breathing.

“I’m fine, Gem. I’m fine,” Harry says but he’s squeezing his eyes shut tight and he’s feeling as though he could pass out at any second because he’s not fine. “I have to go, though, I’m busy and I can’t — I can’t talk long.”

“ _Are you sure you’re okay?_ ” she asks again.

“Fine. I’m fine,” Harry reassures her.

“ _Call me if you need me, okay?_ ”

“I will,” Harry promises. “Love you.”

“ _Love you,_ ” she says, the call ending as Harry swallows, shivering as he puts his phone back onto his bedside table.

It’s happening again, that slow movement of time as he sits on the edge of his bed. His feet are touching the floor but he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel anything except that ache in his chest and it’s growing, getting harder to ignore as he feels his hand begin to shake from where they’re folded in his lap.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. It’s been an entire year since he’d gotten the call, since he’d heard his mother on the line, barely holding herself together.

And Harry wants to miss him, is the thing. He wants to cry, to do something other than sit on his fucking bed and stare at his floor. But he can’t. There’s something stopping him, holding him back as he runs a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t miss his father. What kind of son is he? He can’t even bring himself to miss his father. But he should, is the thing. He knows he should miss him, he should’ve somehow remembered what today was. But he didn’t. Instead he’d slept in and laid in his bed for the large part of the morning until his sister had called.

Instead of sitting there and continuing to feel his chest cave in Harry stands, making his way across the room as he tries to think of something, anything he can do. The only two things that come to mind are getting very drunk in an attempt to forget what today is.

So he does just that. There’s some beer still left in his fridge as he turns up his music, just a little, and focuses on his beer tastes on his tongue. After a short while his head is spinning and he’s not thinking about anything except how fucking cold his flat is and how that hasn’t been fixed yet.

And he’s mad. He’s angry and he’s pissed, opening his door and taking his keys and stumbling down his stairs, his footsteps loud and ringing in his ears. But he’s on a mission. He’s not going to freeze in his flat anymore, he’s going to go and do something about it.

He recalls Ben telling him that he lives above the company building as he walks down the sidewalk. It’s past five so they’re closed, of course they are, as he pounds on the door loudly. No one’s coming so he keeps hitting his fist against the wood feeling something close to pain shooting up his arm but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let himself because he’s finally feeling something.

His cheeks are tear stained when Ben opens the door, a confused expression on his face as Harry stares at him for a moment.

“My flat is fucking freezing and I can’t live in it anymore,” he starts, his tone harsh and his voice loud, so loud in his own head that he nearly winces. “And I need you to come and fix it. Now.”

“Are you — are you drunk?” Ben asks, reaching out a hand but Harry doesn’t move as he feels a warm touch against his forearm. “Here let me walk you home, or something,” he adds when he Harry sways beneath his touch.

Ben’s flat is small, Harry thinks after a moment as he takes a moment to look around. 

There’s a couch to his left but Harry makes a point not to sit. He’s here for a reason, he didn’t come here to sit on a couch and talk about his feelings. “Let me just find the number for a cab,” Ben says, rifling through a pile of papers on the desk near the front door.

“I don’t want a cab,” Harry says, “I’m not going.”

“Harry I don’t — you can’t stay here, not like this,” Ben starts, reaching out to touch his arm once more.

Harry hits his hand away, shaking his head. “I don’t want to go home. I want you to fix this,” he says, firmly. 

“I can’t fix this, Harry. Whatever it is.” Ben’s not talking about the heating. Harry wants to pretend he’s talking about the heating.

But Harry’s sick of being predictable, he’s sick of doing things because he knows that it’s what he’s supposed to, or what he’s planned, he’s so sick of all of it. So instead of apologizing and turning around like he’s supposed to, or he should, he does something he’d never expected. He kisses Ben.

Because then he’s not thinking about how fucked everything has become and he instead focuses on Ben’s chapped lips and how he’s kissing Harry back and how he takes a step backward, hands on Harry’s hips as he takes him along, into his flat.

“You should — go —” Ben’s saying but neither of them are listening, Harry rather enjoying the way he feels goosebumps along the older man’s skin at his cold fingertips.

Neither of them make any effort to go back to the door, instead Harry’s now lifting his arms as Ben tugs at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head before kissing him again, leading him down a hallway Harry doesn’t know. He’s just so tired. So tired of being alone and so tired of having no one there to touch his skin, make him forget all the problems and all the memories constantly replaying in his head.

But the ache in his chest doesn’t leave, not when Ben kisses him, not when he runs a fingertip along Harry’s birds inked into his chest, not when he sucks at the skin just below his ear. It doesn’t fade when he palms Harry’s half hard cock through his jeans, his touch sending a wave of panic through Harry. Because Harry knows who he should be with instead, who he should have gone to in the first place.

He pulls back, suddenly feeling sick as he reaches for his shirt, nearly falling over as his breaths are now coming out quickly as he sees Ben coming closer.

“Harry — Harry are you —” He doesn’t want Ben to ask if he’s okay. Doesn’t want to stay long enough for that as he feels regret immediately begin to sink into him.

“I should. I need go,” Harry says quickly, “it’s um, God, it’s not you. I just. I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t say anything else before walking out the door and out onto the street. His head is pounding and he can hardly walk but he knows for a fact he’s working today, so all Harry needs is just to get there. Just get through the door. 

When he reaches the bar Harry pushes the door open, leaning against it as he slumps to the ground, nearly throwing up right there onto the floor as he hears a quiet murmur of voices around him.

“Harry?” He hears Louis’ voice first, followed second by gentle hands against his face, cupping his cheeks. “What happened to you?”

“He’s dead, did you know that?” Harry’s laughing but it’s hardly funny, leaning into Louis’ touch. “My dad. He’s dead. It’s been a whole year, today. I didn’t even know.”

“Here,” Louis says softly, helping Harry up as he puts a gentle arm around his waist, “here let’s get you home.”

“Your’s,” Harry says as Louis nods.

“Alright,” Louis tells him, “alright we’ll go to mine.”

And finally, Harry can breathe.

-

The first thing Harry does is apologize. He apologizes over and over as they walk into Louis’ flat but the other boy doesn’t respond, instead leading him toward his room, laying him down onto his bed as Harry mumbles into his pillow. He leaves for a moment, returning with a wet cloth as he presses it to Harry’s forehead, the coolness welcomed against his warm skin. 

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says, and his voice is so calm and gentle that Harry stops, closing his mouth as he feels lips pressed briefly to his forehead.

From there he falls asleep, though it hardly feels like it. His mind is racing even when his eyes are closed, running through memories and his thoughts never stopping as he feels himself grabbing fistfuls of Louis’ sheets, his grip tight and his breath shallow.

When he wakes up he blinks, reading the time on the clock beside the bed. Two forty two in the morning he reads, turning slightly as he feels movement from beside him.

Louis is there, on his side as Harry faces him. 

“How are you feeling?” Louis asks, bringing gentle fingertips to brush against his temple.

“Tired. Mouth feels fuzzy,” Harry tells him, “but better.”

Louis nods, the faint sound of a television in the background as Harry lets his eyes trace the features of his face, down his jawline and up along his eyebrows, from his sleepy eyes to the way his fringe falls effortlessly across his forehead. He’s beautiful, Harry thinks, just like this. And no part of him ever wants to leave. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

It’s the first time he’s ever asked, Harry realizes after a moment. 

“Do you want to hear about it?” Harry asks.

Louis smiles, faintly, before reaching his hand across the small space between them and taking Harry’s hand into his own. He gives a small squeeze, tangling their fingers together as Harry nods.

He starts talking. He tells Louis about his father, about growing up, about the agencies. He talks about how he’d work there after school, about how one year the company had done so well he’d taken them all on vacation to New Zealand for two weeks. Harry wraps his free arm around his middle while he talks, keeping himself steady and secured.

Then comes the next few years when his dad expanded, when things were nearly too good to be true. Harry had gone to school, one a few towns over and he’d come and visit Liam at uni on weekends, coming over for a night to spend with his family. Even then things had felt different, somehow oddly tense throughout the entire home, though he could never figure out why.

A few weeks later everything had sort of, fallen apart. With his company tanked his father had gotten more angry, no longer holding it in as he used to do so well. 

That Christmas he’d taken it out on Harry for the first time. He can hardly recall what had happened, all he remembers is breaking a glass in the kitchen when his father had just started shouting and didn’t stop. 

He points out where the bruises had been along his skin, where his father’s harsh touch had pressed against him, Harry never forgetting the feeling as he just remembers his mother in the doorway to the kitchen, trembling and not moving. A part of him had wanted her to do something, to step in, but a larger part of him knew that if she did that it would be worse so he said nothing.

It only happened a few more times after that, his father getting so angry he couldn’t hold back. And it always seemed to be Harry who got the brunt of it, but he never said anything. Neither his mother nor his sister said anything and it was always there, unspoken.

Louis runs his fingertips along where Harry points out where the bruises had been, some of them still slightly visible as he feels his voice begin to shake while talking. 

That’s when he’d started getting the calls at two am, that’s when he’d started going to pick up his father, and that was when Harry found himself hating him, just a little bit more each day. He can only count a handful of times on his hands when he’d said I love you, most of which he’d said before he had been even ten years old.

Only one time he can really remember, when he was seventeen and had gotten drunk for the first time. He remembers his head in the toilet, his father giving him a cup of water as he’d rinsed his mouth.

“Love you,” Harry had said, voice echoing in the toilet bowl.

His father hadn’t responded, instead rubbing his back briefly before going back to his office, shutting the door behind him.

When he’d first gotten the call that he’d died, his first question was how. A heart attack, according to his mother. Harry had been in the middle of the student centre, phone pressed to his ear and trying to hear her words amidst the chatter around him.

But it had been relief that hit him first. Not sadness, not a crippling sort of fear that some people had described to him when first faced with death. But relief. Because he knew the bruises left on his skin were the only one’s he was going to get again.

“It’s fucked up, isn’t it?” Harry asks when he’s finished, relaying the information and feeling rather exhausted.

“Kind of,” Louis says, his hand still wrapped around Harry’s. “But we’re all sort of fucked up, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so. When you put it like that,” Harry agree’s.

“I’m sorry, Harry. That all this happened to you,” Louis tells him.

It’s not the first time someone’s said that to him, but it’s the first time it’s really meant something to him, hearing Louis say it.

“Thank you,” Harry replies softly.

Louis moves closer then, shifting carefully against the mattress as Harry feels himself freeze, mostly in anticipation. He runs the pad of his thumb along Harry’s chin before pressing a soft kiss there, lingering as he moves up to press against his cheek, the corner of his mouth, that little space between his jaw and his neck. Harry doesn’t stop him, instead putting a hand on Louis’ hip, pressing his thumb lightly into the skin to anchor himself in something. Anchor himself in Louis.

It’s just the two of them, hidden away in Louis’ room to explore with gentle touches and whispers of words Harry can’t remember in this town he hardly knows. But he knows Louis a little more than most, he likes to think. 

Louis kisses him, capturing his lower lip between his own with a slowness they both need and tenderness Harry’s been craving for what feels like years. Harry’s pliant under his touch, making small sounds against Louis’ skin as he kisses him back like there’s nothing else in the world he needs to do except just this, right here, as he puts a gentle hand behind Louis’ neck.

He rocks his hips in slow, circular motions against Louis who moans into his mouth, pushing his tongue against Harry’s lips, parting them easily. Heat begins to pool in his stomach as he feels Louis pulls on the waistband of his pants, hesitant and almost like a question.

“Yeah,” Harry breaths, tugging on Louis’ hair lightly, “yeah, Lou. Please.”

Louis doesn’t need to be twice, apparently, as he presses a kiss to Harry’s lips and slowly tugs on his pants. They come off slowly, no real rush as Louis gently palms him through his boxers, Harry’s hips moving up instinctively into the touch. So he pulls down Harry’s boxers next, both items of clothing in a pile beside his bed as he wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, running his thumb along the head as Harry takes in a sharp breath.

And he stays there, nestled between Harry’s legs and he looks so beautiful, is the thing. Even when he noses along Harry’s thighs, pressing uneven kisses along his skin, occasionally biting down briefly as he goes.

His lips are warm around him, taking Harry in almost halfway as he tilts his head back against the pillows, not stopping the sound that escapes his lips. Louis presses his hands behind Harry’s knees, steadying himself as Harry tries to keep his hips from rocking up into his mouth. 

When Harry comes he sees Louis as he leans forward, kissing him in the early hours of the morning. Harry’s eyes are heavy as he tries to keep them open, Louis cleaning him up with another wet cloth and kissing along his skin, the warmth staying with him as Harry mumbles something close to _I love you_ against Louis’ skin before drifting off to sleep.

-

After that, things change. Harry sees Louis more often, half the time they spend in his flat where they sit on the couch, watching Say Yes to the Dress and complaining about anything they please to, really.

His heating also gets fixed. Ben comes over, and Harry apologizes to him profusely before he’s got a moment to get through the door. He hadn’t said much aside from, “it’s alright. I understand,” which Harry hadn’t known how to take. But he hadn’t commented, hadn’t pushed the subject as he’d promised himself that he would not make a habit of kissing his heater repair men. Louis had approved of that choice which had been all the confirmation he’d needed on the subject.

He’s happier, Harry realizes one evening when Louis is tucked under his arm, already fast asleep when he hadn’t bothered to move. Not completely there, not even close, but he’s better.

Niall noticed too, apparently commenting that Harry ‘smiles more’ which he never used to. Zayn had argued that when working alongside Niall no one can seem cheery enough because it’s like working with the fucking sun itself. Niall hadn’t argued.

One night, after Louis had left to his own flat and Harry hadn’t been able to sleep he’d stood in his kitchen, phone in his hand as he’d dialled a familiar number.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Harry inhaled, balancing himself on the balls of his feet before focusing. “Hi, mum,” he’d started, “how are you?”

“ _I’m fine, Harry. How are you?_ ” she asked, careful and slow. 

“Tired,” Harry admitted, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was thinking, though. I have this weekend off. And there’s — there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She paused, as if considering before saying, “ _you know you’re welcome anytime._ ”

“I know, I just, wanted to make sure you were around.” 

“ _When are you coming?_ ”

And that had been it, really.

-

“Did you bring the CD’s?” Harry asks as he watches Louis put his bag into the trunk.

“All six of them, as per request,” Louis says, kissing his lips briefly before walking around the front of the car to get into the front seat.

“Four hours is a long drive, Tomlinson. You’re gonna thank me,” Harry defends, not commenting on the way Louis laughs in response when he does.

He starts the car, their bags in the back as he pulls out from Louis’ driveway. The music is playing softly and Louis is singing along, just barely audible as Harry listens to him. 

“Right then,” Louis says gently, taking Harry’s hand from across the console between them, pressing his thumb to Harry’s palm. “Let’s get you home.”

Harry couldn’t have said it better himself.

**Author's Note:**

> leighanne, for listening to me whine and being generally lovely and wonderful and reading this over for me. you're amazing and i love you with my whole entire heart.
> 
> amber, this one's for you baby because peapods. i love you darling girl. so so much.
> 
> if you read this, thank you. i very much appreciate it.


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